


The Spirit of Skyrim

by Alice_in_Black



Series: Briinah [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bal Molagmer, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Drama & Romance, Getting Back Together, Multi, Stormcloaks, Thalmor, Thieves Guild, War, true love conquers shitty political pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 63,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4087363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alice_in_Black/pseuds/Alice_in_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over a year and a half since the Elder Scroll prophecy was seen through, the infamous brother-sister team who took down Alduin announce that they are joining the Stormcloak rebellion in order to prevent the Landfall Disaster at the hands of the Thalmor. But Brina and Zeno do not see eye-to eye with Ulfric and it will take a fair amount of creativity and manipulation on all sides to make this fragile partnership work. Matters are made worse and better on both sides when a misunderstood gesture turns strained alliances into dangerous couplings.</p><p>At the same time, the Thieves Guild is moving into Windhelm. When news reaches them that former guildmates Brina and Zeno are getting mixed up in the war, they quickly realize that they will be dragged in as well whether they want to or not.</p><p>*UPDATE: The first person POV shifts in the first few chapters have been edited to be third person. Henceforth, the entire work will be only in third person POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Karliah and Kynvind**

“The Bal Molagmer,” Karliah whispered. “Too long, the legend has been forgotten. And now it begins again, in earnest.” Hands wrapped in velvet gloves traced the lines of crumbling mortar between broken blocks of slate. This building, like all the others in the Gray Quarter, could barely even protect against the harsh elements. There was so much work to be done.

“It’s a Dunmeri tradition,” Kynvind added approvingly. Bright blue eyes sparkled at the possibilities, at the destiny they would carve for themselves and the lives they would change. “It seems right that we put ourselves to work here. Riften has the guild proper. But we have a much higher calling.”

“The ends shall justify our means.”

“Our cause is righteous. Our methods are... not important,” Kynvind agreed. “I just know, I’ve never been so glad to be home.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, mulling over the daunting task ahead of them. The guild had established footholds in the city, certainly, but their goals were far loftier than establishing fences and connections. They would change Windhelm forever. Together, the Bal Molagmer would rebuild the Gray Quarter.

 

**Eha Kalju**

Talos. That statue was so much more to her these last few years than it ever was growing up. Tall and imposing, in the same heroic pose as the one in the temple back home, she could stare up at his stoic face for hours. If only she’d asked more questions while she’d had the chance.

Hours spent kneeling before his image left her blue tabard wrinkled. She lifted herself slowly and checked that the harness for her scabbards was secure before placing a hand on Talos’s stone sword.

Prayer never appealed to her. Meditation, however, was something else entirely. To clear her mind in the cold, still room, to gaze up and lose herself in the strong visage of her god remained her very favorite thing outside of battle since she joined the rebellion.

Leaning in until she all but kissed the statue, she swore against the blade, “On my father’s unmarked grave, I will give you back to Skyrim.”

 

**Thrynn**

It would feel like home soon enough, they’d promised him. Pathetic that nothing felt like home that wasn’t underground in a sewer beneath a graveyard. The upstairs of the cornerclub would be a good hideout, since city guards never even came to this derelict neighborhood and the locals were only too happy to have someone take authority on the lawless streets.

The Thieves Guild being involved meant that crime would be controlled and managed and have a stake in the community. That it wasn’t just the Guild, but Karliah’s offshoot faction Bal Molagmer, meant the downtrodden Dunmer and impoverished lowlifes would be seeing a greater improvement sooner in the Gray Quarter than they could have expected even if the Imperials claimed the city. It presented them with more than just the prospect of hope, but a force of justice - and lack thereof - that would uphold their interests and traditions. They had nothing to lose, and the Kyn and Karliah had only the loftiest of plans.

And Thrynn was their enforcer. A thug, a guard, an authority, a protector, a thief, he was the muscle of the operation to serve whatever purpose was required of him. Somehow, he didn’t expect this to be any easier at all than what he’d been doing back in Riften.

“Oh, there you are! Hiding away,” Kynvind cooed from the doorway. “Thought you’d be down drinking.”

“It’s late. And I’ve been drinking,” he growled back. Until they got proper beds, mats on the dusty floor were the extent of their amenities. The burly thief sat on the one against the wall, leaving the two side-by-side beneath the stairs for the ladies. “I was about to turn in.”

The Nord girl pressed against the doorframe, one narrow brow lifting in a mischievous arch that Thrynn long since learned to dread. “How long ago did you come up here? Did you hear what they’re saying?”

“Never anything important--”

“The Valus siblings are coming to Windhelm.”

Thrynn straightened as if struck. “...Both of them?”

“Yes. Both.”

Eyes lowered, throat bobbed, head nodded like he could hope to play it off. Kynvind could swear she could hear his heart thundering from where she stood. “...Huh.”

 

**Ulfric Stormcloak**

“The Dragonborn will be here by tomorrow,” Galmar reported, disdain unhidden. Every part of him was tense just to imagine the havoc the detestable so-called hero would wreak. Surely it was a blessing that the Imperial-blooded former legionnaire had chosen to side with the rebels rather than the Empire, since there was no doubt he was a destructive force of nature that none would want to find opposing them on the battlefield. But that alliance would come at a steep price that had yet to be negotiated.

Ulfric leaned over the war table, examining the map and rapping his knuckles over the mountains as though he expected an answer. “I will find a way to muzzle him. He might be difficult, but he can be tamed. Consider us lucky to be given a finely honed weapon. We only need to learn how to wield it, and how to sheath it.”

“You’re assuming that he can be reasoned with at all,” his general snorted in derision.

Ulfric was quiet for a beat, then he asked, “Is the rumor true that he’s bringing his sister?”

Galmar nodded stiffly. “Brina Valus. Soldiers are already talking about her. Recruits from the Rift and Whiterun are more excited to meet her than the Dragonborn.”

“I’m not assuming that I can reason with him. But I think there is hope for his sister.”

A clang of gauntlets on the wall, a sort of knock, came from the front of the room. “Ulfric, Galmar,” Eha said to each in turn. “Apologies for barging in so late.”

“No need, commander.” Ulfric straightened from the table and beckoned her forward.

She took only a couple steps forward, as few as she could without earning herself a disapproving glare from Galmar. “I was headed to the barracks, but I heard whispering from the recruits about the Dragonborn. And then just now from you… pardon me for overhearing.” Eha cleared her throat with a small sound. “I think perhaps you do not realize just what sort of storm is coming.”

 

**Brina and Zeno**

They moved together, feet stepping out the same rhythm, laughter ringing with the same melody, it was like they were echoes of one another, two sides of one coin. Her gentleness, though often overshadowed by his ruthlessness, never faltered. She stood before them, not a warrior but an alchemist, not a leader but a healer and supporter.

And there beside her, with a protective arm around his sister’s waist, was the Dragonborn himself. As fearsome as the stories promised, with dark hair and eyes against a very Imperial olive complexion, his princely demeanor only barely hid the insidious gleam in his eyes. He wore red and black leathers, the likes of which very few ever lived to remember, and thus were utterly unrecognizable to the small retinue. He wore a sword on one hip, a dagger on the other, but neither were of Nordic make and both carried a faint sense of dread that pierced the heart upon being observed.

But for all the Dragonborn’s reputation for being troublesome, violent, cruel and untrustworthy, his sister had the precise opposite. Spirit of the Rift, some called her, an extraordinary wielder of Restoration magics and an alchemist to put the very best court wizards to shame. While Zeno was the damnable destroyer, she would be the resolute protector.

“This is our escort?” he purred. His lips twisted into a worryingly entertained smirk. “Alright. Not half bad. Ulfric knows who’s he’s dealing with.”

She squeezed his hand and murmured, “He thinks so, anyway.”


	2. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brother and Sister are in the heart of the Stormcloak capital, and are realizing that this alliance may be easier said than done.

“We don’t separate.” At first Brina couldn’t tell which of them said it, and it took a moment to process that the words had come from both siblings simultaneously. While Zeno said it through a bite of his teeth, his voice equal parts feral growl and superior snarl, she felt the edge of panic in her own.

Their journey to Windhelm took weeks, and not for the distance. Of course they planned to join the Stormcloaks long ago, but every step the Dragonslayers took eastward came with an impulse to hold off the inevitable. Every distraction pursued, every ruin explored, and every mundane task a passerby might ask of them completed. A year and a half passed since defeating Alduin, and they’d been across Skyrim and back, up mountains and down caverns. The word ‘responsibility’ removed itself from their minds, and together the brother and sister Valus fell into a blissful existence of excitement and freedom. The most they did was stop in to Dawnstar every now and again to visit Zeno’s other ‘family,’ but other than that, it was all open road and Dwemer cities and barrows and freedom. But whisperings that the Imperials were ready to push back forced the wanderlust from their hearts. There was no more time for delay. If they were going to pick a side, the time was now.

At first their cooperation with the Stormcloaks seemed promising. Brina and Zeno stood shorter than them, complexion olive in a sea of pale pink, hair and eyes black in a crowd of blond and blue of a faction that favored their own and made known their feelings for outlanders. Despite that, Ulfric, or some other in charge, sent a small party out to meet the Valuses on the road and escort them the rest of the way, all reverence and respect and not a breath of, “Skyrim is for the Nords.”

Not where the Valuses could hear them, of course.

There was no time to stop at their home in the Stone Quarter to clean up or rest, it was straight to the Palace of Kings to meet the men in charge and get acquainted and then off to do battle. Time was of the essence, and the Valuses weren’t the only ones who knew it.

Not that the Stormcloaks didn’t want to be welcoming to some degree -- there was a feast prepared right outside the room they now stood in, and there was just a little bit of time they would afford to merriment and good Nord-like rough-housing fun before their missions were to start. Those in charge were all business, continually pointing at maps and referencing reports, but Brina caught soldiers “casually” walking past, peeking in on multiple occasions, their eyes alight, their breath catching whenever they caught sight of her or her brother. No matter how intent on making progress and gaining ground in this war Galmar Stone-Fist might have been, even he could see the wonderment and excitement in his men.

These were the Dragonslayers, after all, the Dragonborn who slayed Alduin and the Spirit of the Rift who protected and healed the people. Outlanders, yes, but heroic ones. And now, they were hope, the chance to finally turn the tide of this two-year stalemate between the Empire and the Stormcloaks. The soldiers loved them by their reputation alone.

But already the cracks in this new alliance were beginning to show. Galmar Stone-Fist, his heavy features creased into a perpetuate frown, kept his finger insistently on the war map. “Your skills are different and needed elsewhere. To send you to the same fields would be a waste of one of you. And the more troops you work with, the further we can travel you both, the more will be emboldened by your presence.”

“Another sacrifice you would have us make? Isn’t it enough that we’ve agreed to help you, despite what you and Ulfric would say of Imperials like us?” Brina blurted out. It really wasn’t the issue at hand, but there were too many issues to keep track of at this point.

“Since the minute Ulfric read your letter offering yourselves to his cause, the issue of outlanders has quieted,” Galmar said.

As well it should, she wanted say. Instead, she sniffed and shook her head like a disgruntled horse. Oh, Brina's list of complaints about the Stormcloak philosophy went on for miles. But this was only the beginning, and this was the general of the army. She would have to save her full diatribe for Ulfric himself, if she ever got the chance to look the bastard in the eyes. Skyrim for the Nords? Rubbish. Gray Quarter? Utter shit. Thalmor and Talos…?

Well, there was one thing they did agree on. Really the only thing. But it was an important thing, the most important thing that could not be changed like minds or opinions or hearts. Talos needed to survive. For all Tamriel, for the existence of Mundus, Talos needed to survive. And that was why she and Zeno now stood side-by-side, hands clasped and knuckles white in the planning room of Ulfric’s highest military advisors, ready to fight for the god that her brother shared the spark of Shezzarine with.

“Quieted? That’s the best you racist fucks have to offer?” Her dear, sweet Brother, always straight to the point. Ah, but his hands remained occupied, one holding Brina’s and the other gripping the edge of the table in fury. That was a good thing, anyone who knew him would mention. Neither were twitching for his dagger. Yet. The night was still young. “Your sorry asses are about to be led to victory by a couple of foreigners; we expect some thrice-damned respect, and you can start by keeping my sister and I together. On every mission. No exceptions. We do not separate.”

A rustle and scrape against the floor behind them brought a slight flinch to Brina's face. The poor recruits, who only minutes ago burst with excitement to try peeking in at them, received their first glimpses at the Dragonborn’s legendary temper. And this wasn’t even the worst of it, not by a long shot.

Galmar had been leaning over the table, his broad frame all but eclipsing it. When he pulled himself upright to stand at his full height -- _how did Nords get so big?_ Brina wondered, not for the first time. _What god decided that this was allowed, for any human to get so damn big?_ \-- he loomed over them with the stern eyes of a father who told his children to do a chore one too many times. “There is no good reason to have a healer in Korvanjund when there are men dying in skirmishes on the field.”

“I’ll remind you you said that when you’re bleeding out at my feet,” Zeno snapped.

“Brina,” he said, looking at her with that same look of realization everyone gets when they finally realize which sibling was the easier battle. “It is a great advantage to have you two with us, and we intend to use that advantage to its fullest. Your talents are needed where men are injured and in need of inspiration.”

Her mouth went taut, lips sucking between biting teeth. “We don’t separate,” Brina repeated with just the slightest waver of her voice. Because being apart proved to be unbearable; because being together felt right and perfect. Sometimes she forgot what it felt like to be apart from him, only that the nights were darker and her fears deeper. To lose him now would be to lose an important part of herself.

And his dark eyes were on Brina, pleading, begging her not to let them win. The exact same thoughts were running through his mind, too, and she knew it.

Galmar's hope was certainly to have them on the road and headed toward their respective destinations as soon as possible. Good luck to him, because it would take a lot to convince them.

_Yes, your sword arm in impressive, and you have eyes like a hawk! We’d like to use your eyes for a lookout over here while your arm fights on the frontlines._

They could not separate.

Brina could hear him coming long before he made it to the war room. The clang of Nord steel on stone steps and the aura of a leader preceded him long before he entered. They had Brina turning her head sharply while Zeno continued to glower down the general.

“Ulfric,” Galmar said, standing a bit straighter, “these are the Valuses.”

_Jarl._ Everything about him spoke of the rugged nobility of the north. The jarls were not the pampered counts and princes from Cyrodiil. Deep battle scars red as fresh wounds carved his cheek, while the rest of his face was lined to show the merciless years spent with too much weight on his shoulders. Outfitted in steel, he could just as easily be going to besiege a city or sitting down to a nice supper; it was all the same to warrior-kings, wasn’t it? Light brown hair, bronze in the orange glow of candles and sconces, and eyes turned dark by the troubles seething behind them, it was impossible to place his age. He was probably just a bit younger than Brina's father would be, if her recollection of the history served correctly. He was a young war hero gaining fame right around the time of her birth. In fact, Brina might not have even been born yet when Ulfric's militia reclaimed Markarth at the Empire's behest. Yet he stood with the posture of a man still in his prime, his body not feeling any of the fatigue that his mind and heart carried. As if all the years that passed went straight into his soul, showing in the creases of worry on his brow but never in the aches or pains of age.

If Brina was going to say something, she could not find the words. Talos only knew how much she had to say to the man, how many criticisms she had for his whole operation, but if the man could do one thing right, it was command a room’s attention. That was the power of charisma, that he need only stand before her to inspire awe.

“Yes. Zeno, welcome. So long as your criminal past stays in the past, and you fight for me with honor and integrity, we'll welcome you into our ranks.” Criminal past was an understatement, but the tightness of Ulfric’s jaw told her that he was well aware of his own trivialization. “And you are Brina. Spirit of the Rift. But you are not of the Rift, are you? You are not even of Skyrim.”

Her throat went tight at his accusation. “In my own way, I was. The Rift was my chrysalis.”

“If you romanticize hardship, you may find that war does not suit you.” The maelstrom in his eyes turned colder. His every feature was strong, assured. Strong jaw, prominent nose, sharp eyes and a mouth set stubbornly in a straight line, they made his look of disapproval more oppressive by multiples.

“And if you can disregard your citizens so easily--” Oh, look, there were those words she lost! Found them! “--you may not be up to being a king!” Floodgates opened. No going back. Not so much as a nice to meet you, and he hadn’t even walked full into the room from the stairwell before she began to lay into him. “I’m here to stop the Thalmor, not to win you the province, but you do realize that you’re more than the king of a bunch of mountains and snow, right? These are people, people who call this land home and who call Talos their god! Or would if you would let them! The Argonians on the docks would pray at his shrines and fight in your army if it was for Skyrim to be their land, too! The elves, the Khajiit, think of how massive your force would be if they had rights to fight for! This war would be over a long time ago if you weren’t alienating your own people all the time! You are not their king! And that’s just looking at this pragmatically, not even taking into consideration that they’re people, and they deserve to be safe and to have a home! Are you going to make Skyrim a free land, unbound by the Empire and the Thalmor, or are you going to make it a monument to your own prejudice?”

His eyes looked for something on Brina's face. It reminded her of that rogue Brynjolf of Riften and the way he could look her over and know everything about her by the make of her boots and style of her hair. Finally, his voice low, he said, “You’re passionate.” Something in the tone felt like another accusation.

“We are,” Zeno said, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulder. “Skyrim is our home. We demand that mean something to you. If you are supposed to be our king.”

“And that means you’ll need to start treating everyone like that. There are sons and daughters of Skyrim with pointed ears, too.” Shehe drew in a deep breath. This was Brina's first time meeting the man in charge, and if this was a glimpse of what she could expect… ugh. He may regret taking them on. “We’re here to help you defeat the Thalmor and, by extension, the Empire. But if you want us to be the heroes of this war, you’ll need to convince us to want you as our king. And right now, I'm not compelled to kneel.”

“You’re talking to Ulfric Stormcloak!” Glamar barked behind her. “Jarl of Windhelm and the true High King. Show him respect!”

She didn’t have to turn her head to feel the burning glare her brother directed at the general.

“Then allow me to convince you,” Ulfric said, his words measured and tone obliging without slipping into submissiveness. “Join us for this feast. Meet my inner circle, enjoy yourself, and let us discuss our goals as friends.”

“Ulfric, there isn’t time for this. If we do not press the Imperials, they will push forward.” Galmar argued.

But the so-called High King waved the complaints away with a gauntleted hand. “We’ve held them at an impasse for many months. They can wait one more night if that is what it takes to convince our new friends to trust us.”

At the Jarl’s bidding, the Valuses stepped together out of the war room, exchanging glances as they entered the main hall. It was a whole different scene from the war room, full of food and people and light. Zeno rolled his eyes dramatically, and she responded with a lowering of her brows.

He knew how to read his sister’s face. And she knew his. In the time they traveled, they found that knew each other’s minds more completely than any old tale of heroism or alchemical recipe. And just as Zeno would see Brina fighting hard against their first impressions to hold onto some kind of hope for this fiasco, Brina could easily see Zeno already losing interest in helping them at all.

Blue tabards as far as the eye could see, the massive hall was filled to the brim with soldiers. Zeno and Brina shared a sigh as they each realized the same moment just what they were about to subject ourselves to. Three long tables occupied the majority of the space, and all three were packed with rowdy northerners.

They stood to the side, watching and searching for a place to fit along the benches, when she heard Zeno heave a groan. His hand went into the folds of his tunic to find his little tin flask.

“It won’t be so bad,” she whispered. “Ulfric let me yell at him first thing. That’s promising, right?”

The jarl sat himself on his throne at the top of the dias, and a servant hurried to him to offer him a heavy, ornate stein of mead. Galmar stood at his side. Neither joined in the boisterous atmosphere, instead engaging in a conversation of low rumbles, no doubt about politics and more than likely about the Dragonslayers.

“Are you drinking tonight, or me?” Zeno asked. “I want to, really, but I think if I get drunk I’ll end up killing all of them, so I may need to be sober…”

“You realize you’ve already uncorked the brandy, right?” she asked, raising a brow at the flask.

He startled, realizing that it had made its way to his hand apparently unconsciously. He shrugged, defeated, and took a quick swig. “Sober-ish. They’re annoying as fuck all, can you blame me? This’ll be all I have, just to put up with them, so you have at it.”

“They’ve got plenty of mead. Why waste the Cyrodiilic?”

“Because I need something Imperial in me to remind me not to be a savage.” He smacked a brandy-scented kiss onto her temple, leaving a wet print there. “Want some?”

“I like their mead, actually.”

“Sure, but the brandy hits you faster. You'd need to drink your weight in mead before it mattered.”

“Point. You are sure? It’s your turn.”

“Yes. I shouldn’t get too out of my mind when I’m this upset. You just get cuter when you’re drunk, so nothing to worry about as far as ruining our shaky alliances.”

“Keep an eye out, please.”

“Don’t worry, I will. You know I’d never let anything happen to you.” He passed the flask her way, and she took a long pull of the burning stuff the instant it hit her hand. When she started to hand it back, he only put the cork on top and waved it back.

If he insisted. The flask went to its second home in the bandolier slung across her hips, beside Brina's right hand and ready to grab. “Want to sit?”

The benches were crammed full. The only spaces would barely be big enough for one of them, forcing them to… ugh, separate.

Zeno was thinking the same thing Brina was. “Now they’re just fucking with us,” he growled.

“How about you sit down,” she suggested. “Get something to eat, have a little bit of mead just to calm your nerves, and relax. Tell them about the dragon--”

“Which?”

“Autumn Watch Tower.”

“Oh, that is a good one.”

“And you love telling that story, and you’ll make everyone who listens love you,” she said. “Maybe try having fun.”

“Easier said. You?”

“I’m going to…” Brina paused, frowning. The crowd was huge, the tables packed, and there were even more people standing about the edges of the room. None of it was going to help her. There was a huge task ahead of her, if she would be the one talking their way through their various demands with Ulfric. Maybe she was in over her head. Zeno could be charming and manipulative when he wanted to be, but he did prefer to take the hands-on, bloody approach, which wouldn’t work here. And besides, she wanted an actual partnership, not a strained relationship built on a foundation of intimidation and mutual distrust. She really, truly wanted this to work with the Stormcloaks. Easier to drive out the Thalmor with an army than alone. “I’m going to think it through. I need some quiet and a clear head. We’ll continue our talk with the bears soon, and I want to have more than roars and growls for them.”

“Fair enough.” Brina heard more than a few conversations stop, and felt uncomfortable glances when Zeno leaned down and planted another kiss, this time on Brina’s cheek. Back home, it would be strange not to kiss your family, friends, work acquaintances, neighbors. Just another way the Nords were impersonal and stuffy, Brina often thought. “Just don’t be gone too long. You’ll miss all the mead, even if it is too weak for you, and that’ll be a waste of your turn. You’re not getting three in a row if you squander this!”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t run out,” Brina said, smiling, and kissed his nose. “Don’t worry, I promise to get positively belligerent before the night is through!”

“You’d better not be getting my hopes up!”

He went to the nearest empty spot at the nearest table, glimpsing over his shoulder three times as he did to watch her go.

Back the way she came, through the war room, she showed herself up the stairs. It would be the quarters, if she remembered the brief description of the castle as given by the jarl’s housecarl upon their arrival. It would be quiet and, most important, isolated. Just to give her some time with her thoughts, to decide what she would say and where they would go from here. Not to mention a place to cool off a bit before she found another opportunity to shout at Ulfric.

There were no nooks or windows to sit and rest at. Just a frigid hallway of closed doors. A few benches sat at the top of the landing right on entering the wing, but sitting right where everyone would cross her didn’t strike her as the most comfortable or relaxing spot. Solitude, solitude, was there nowhere in the forsaken old fortress that a person could hide?

Brina held her black robes aloft with one hand to avoid stepping on the already-fraying hem as she shuffled down the hall, cursing every closed door. Not a single nice sitting room in sight! Finally, at what must have been the end for no light shone from the top, a small flight of wide, low steps seemed her best bet. The corridor got dark right here; if there was anything above, it was closed off but at least that meant no one would be coming in or out. The stone steps weren’t the most comfortable seat she could have imagined but each one was wide, built with huge armored feet in mind, so that her backside and most of her thighs could all rest on just one. It could have been worse. She could sleep on these steps if she had to.

The flask kept her company while Zeno made himself some admirers downstairs. She wouldn’t be long, she told herself as she uncorked it and took a sip. The fancy brandy’s flavor was more or less ruined by the cheap tin’s metallic taste, but neither of them ever minded. The dented and scratched metal bottle was part of the family, just as flawed and fucked up as they were. Brina settled in.

Ulfric seemed ready to listen. Would he be receptive to criticism? Would he change? Obviously there was some give already. Just their joining them had brought an end to the loudest declarations of a pure-Nord Skyrim. And if they won the war, if they really became the heroes, surely Ulfric and his ilk couldn’t deny the value of other races in their land. But then, when was bigotry like that ever from a place of logic?

But there were many other issues, of course. Ulfric wasn’t exactly a popular fellow with half Skyrim’s Nord population, between killing the High King and using a sacred skill to do it. That, and many questioned what would happen after his victory. Once the Thalmor were pushed out and Empire eradicated, what then? It was much the same question as the Alik’r were currently asking of themselves; even in light of their victory over the Thalmor and their withdrawal from the Empire, they still had a thousand problems. The obvious answer was an alliance, and hopefully that could spread the fires of rebellion elsewhere in the bleeding empire, but that would be near impossible unless Ulfric had a better reputation.

But to fix that reputation? Brina snorted out her nose to think of the implications of that. It would require a very old horse learning some very new tricks - teaching a man with a lot of scars on his heart and mind and body to let go of every prejudice that had been carved violently into him. Maybe he was a more open-minded man before the Great War bent and broke him, before the ultimate betrayal in Markarth taught him not to trust anyone but his fellow countrymen. And, of those countrymen, only the proudest, loudest, most devout could be allowed close. Was he ruined beyond repair? Did his hardships add up into a monster that could not be trusted with the future of this world? If such turned out to be the case, then they were lost. The Thalmor were getting closer and closer to their goal, and the minute that Talos was forgotten as a god, the world would crumble under the weight of the Thalmor’s hubris. Landfall, her brother called it. That was the word that festered in his mind, placed there by Hermaeus Mora when he’d dared ask a question just an inch too curious. That word brought them here, their mission clear, to protect the Tower of Talos at all costs and stop the Thalmor. For all Ulfric’s faults, he had that much right.

Her ass was hurting. Brina lifted the flask for a sip, and felt nothing meet her tongue. How long had she been up here? When she glanced around, the world moved a bit slower than her eyes, doubling in places. A bit of mead on top and she'd be nice and drunk.

Oh, well. Zeno would be searching the castle to collect her soon.

A pair of footsteps echoed down the hall, far too loud to be Brother. She closed her eyes and growled, “No, Sam. Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

The steps stopped, and right about when she would hear a familiar Daedra’s voice, chiding her or cajoling her, there was nothing. Brina looked up to see the brawny figure from the war room, the subject of her brooding for the last however-long.

She wished she were better at reading people, but even if she could discern his expression, it didn’t change that he was nothing but a shadow against the lights of the horn chandelier behind him.

“Oh.” Not Sam Guevenne after all.

“If I’d known you were waiting to speak with me, I’d not have kept you waiting so long. I assume this is about earlier?”

Sitting down was weak body language, Arcadia once told her, so she wobbled up to her feet. Thankfully the step was wide enough that she didn’t go toppling down like the utter idiot she felt. “You can win,” Brina burst out.

“I intend to.”

“But not like this. Skyrim won’t unite if you win like this, and that victory won’t last. You’ll be destroyed.”

“I have heard as much from a hundred other voices. Your words are not lost on me.”

“Then why is this still an issue? Even if the Empire did betray you at Markarth--”

“The trouble began long, long before that,” Ulfric said, his low voice so grim that Brina was thankful for the shadows that hid his face. She didn’t need to know how scary he must have been in that moment, thank you. He grappled with the next words, the taste of humility uncommon to him as of late. “But… as I said, your words are not lost on me. I welcome you, an Imperial, and I welcome what you have to say.”

“Because we’ll win this for you,” she said confidently. She wouldn’t let him forget how much he needed her.

“Because it feels good to trust someone for their passion and benevolence over their birthplace. It has been a long time.”

Oh. Brina sniffed. “Well, I don’t trust you.” Brina held up her hand and, from this step, she was at his height and tall enough to be a bit intimidating, she'd like to think. “But I’m giving you the chance to change my mind. I look forward to the day that I can call you a worthy king, because Skyrim needs it.”

Ulfric nodded slowly, and she couldn’t tell just what effect that had on him. But considering she was tipsy, she was still keeping it together well and she imagined that he was quite impressed with her right then. Brina teetered down the steps then, only putting her palm to the wall for stability when she got to the very bottom.

“And that is what you were waiting to tell me?” It was worded like a question, but his deep voice made it sound like a statement, like he already knew.

“To be truthful… no. It’s not all. I also just wanted the chance to be alone.”

Ulfric's shoulders pulled back, and now that she was closer, she could see his brows lower. “Oh?” Now it sounded like a question.

“I’ve been swarmed by guards since before I made it to the city. Downstairs is full of soldiers. I was starting to wonder if getting privacy was even possible.” Brina shrugged it off. “But… if you’re retiring, I’ll get out of your way. By all means. Your majesty.” She only lost her balance slightly in the sarcastic bow that followed.

She started down the hall when the enormous hand, like a bear’s claw, landed on her shoulder. “I’ll show you back to the banquet.”

“Isn’t that a job for a guard?” Brina scoffed.

“I cannot afford to have my hero falling down the stairs and breaking her skull.” Oh. So he _could_ tell that she'd been drinking. And here she'd thought she was so composed. “Unless the Nord mead doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh, it suits me very well,” she said, all enthusiasm now. “I used to work in a meadery, for a time! But I like it so well that it takes whole barrel of it to feel anything anymore.”

A rumble that reverberated off the walls like an earthquake answered her. Was that supposed to be a laugh? “You shouldn’t expect to feel anything after a barrel of mead.”

“Point. But until Nords make something stiffer--”

“Hold now, girl, you can’t be saying--”

“I’m saying I could drink that boar of a general of yours under the table!” Her grin was proud and, for a moment, Ulfric almost looked amused. He looked like a lot of things, actually. Brina took the opportunity to look him over, closer. The rugged furs he wore and looked like they might weigh as much as the sabrecat they were cut from, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine how she’d stand draped in that and his long coat of chainmail. The chains were clean, but not new, and she could clearly see which links had been replaced more recently than others. Between some, red rust crusted where the blood simply refused to scrub away. His breastplate was polished, decorated with lines and designs that reminded her of the reliefs carved into the walls of barrows. Ancient in design and make, she wondered if she'd seen one just like it on one of those Very-Angry-Draugr she sometimes faced at the bottom of tombs. Beneath all that, his wool clothes were not the expected Stormcloak blue, but black like mourning clothes. This is what he would wear to a party? He kept her perfectly stable all the way back down the stairs to the ground floor, one hand holding her straight, his pace slow and careful.

“Sir!” At first she thought it was a statue, but the suit of armor waiting in the war room moved. Full steel, face obscured by a full helmet, she had to blink to be sure she was seeing it right. Snow dusted their shoulders and the top of their head; they were fresh from the field. “I have an urgent message, just delivered by bird.”

“Bird? Not courier?” Ulfric let go of her, and crossed the floor to her in two long strides.

“The ship coming from Dawnstar shipwrecked just passed Winterhold,” the soldier explained between hard puffs of breath. Gauntlets pulled the helm from her head to reveal a face unmarred by scars or age, with blue eyes like daggers. Tawny hair stuck to her skin, damp from running. “They’re stranded on Serpentstone Isle. Many injured, two dead as of the time of the letter. Surely more by now.”

“Thank you, Stormblade. I will speak with Galmar,” Ulfric said, already on his way out as he said it.

That left her and the woman, and while she wanted to scurry out to find Brother, something about the way she held Brina’s gaze turned her feet to lead.

“Pardon me,” she breathlessly said. “I am Commander Eha Kalju. Sometimes they call me Stormblade. And you are Brina, aren’t you?” She extended an arm to take Brina’s, her grip on Brina’s wrist strong and warm even through the cold steel of her gauntlet. “I’m glad to meet you, even under these unfortunate circumstances. Actually, this might just be the best possible time. I need to assemble some swift sailors and trustworthy swords to rescue that squadron caught by the ice on the Sea of Ghosts. I could use a healer with me.”

It had been remarkably easy to tell Galmar where he could shove his need for a healer. But hearing right where she was needed, on the scene of a shipwreck, while she stood before Eha with her lungs still burning from running to her king so quick with the news, well, suddenly telling her, “We don’t separate,” was just a bit harder.

“I don’t think that was my intended mission,” Brina said.

“Whatever they think your mission ought to be, it probably isn’t taking your potential fully into account. A grand rescue would not only save these soldiers, but it would be famous among the recruits. That’s the sort of morale boost we need, better than just touring the camps and setting bones. I know what they had in mind for you.”

Brina’s mind screamed, _We don’t separate!_ But they needed her, and she was so confident, how could Brina not believe her? How could Brina not believe a Kalju?

As they waited, Eha ran the tips of her fingers over the etching of her armor, drawing over the symbol of Talos there over and over with every minute that passed. “You just arrived. I wished I could have greeted you, but I was waiting for word on the lost ship on the docks.”

“I was supposed to get here a few days ago, but delays on the road.”

“Ah.”

“Bandits,” Brina added.

“They are a bother.”

“And the snow.”

“Blizzard season came early this year.”

“And a dragon.”

Eha laughed. “Sounds like a grand adventure indeed.”

“You’re not affected by anything I could say, are you?” Brina joked, leaning back against the wall for support and falling back just a bit further than she expected.

But Eha just shook her head, perhaps pretending to ignore Brina’s tipsy gracelessness. There was a banquet going on; no need to be surprised that Brina was drunk. “After the stories I’ve heard from my brother? No, not one bit. The surprise would be if you told me your journey was uneventful.”

When Ulfric returned, he had Galmar in tow and Zeno following close behind. They wasted no time talking the who and where and when, and Brina was sorely wishing she could be drunker already. But Brother was warm and protective beside her, leaning into her with his arm wrapped close around her. That, at least, was a comfort.

“It will take a few hours for us to get a ship ready to sail,” Ulfric said at last, looking up at her from the far side of the table. “Brina, will you go with them?”

Brina cast an apologetic glance up at Brother and said, “Yes. I will.”

There was a pause. “Zeno will not be with you,” he continued.

“I know. But this is where you need me.”

There was a look, a quick dart of Zeno’s eyes that promised something to talk about later, complete with a little squeeze against her arm.

Ulfric and Galmar shared a look as well, and Eha beside the table shot her a private smile.

“Very well. Take this time to get what rest you can and prepare. Commander, collect her when you’re ready to set off,” Galmar commanded, and Eha snapped her fist to her chest in a quick salute.

Rather than walk all the way to their house in the residential district, Zeno and Brina were shown to the upstairs once more, and directed to two separate rooms across the hall from each other. They chose the one with the windows facing west, so that the morning sun wouldn’t force them awake any sooner than necessary.

Brina was nearly sober by now, washing herself off with the shallow basin of hot water provided, while Zeno slipped out of the room. He muttered something about gathering information and listening in, up to no good, no doubt.

He returned just as Brina was dry and slipping into the large bed at the center of the room. He let the fire keep burning, only bothering to extinguish the couple of candles around the room before excitedly jumping onto the bed on his knees. Eyes bright with something Brina could already tell she wouldn’t like, he scooted close, excitement radiating from him like electricity, like a child unable to sleep the night before a festival.

“I know, we promised not to split up and I ruined that, but… what has you looking so satisfied?” Good things rarely came when he looked like that. Like a cat with feathers sticking out its mouth.

“You, my dear little sister, have stumbled onto one of my favorite tactics for endearing myself to people,” Zeno chuckled, and though he fought to keep his voice down, he couldn't stop the stream of laughs that followed. It felt like they were children again, staying up too late to whisper secrets and trying to contain ourselves so Father wouldn’t force them to sleep. “But, before I get ahead of myself, you should know…”

Brina’s mouth tightened in anticipation.

“They hate us.”

“Well, of course.”

“No, I mean they really, really fucking _dread_ having to work with us. They think you’re going to betray them for the Empire, and they think I’m going to set the castle on fire if someone looks at me wrong. Which is fair, considering Falkreath…”

“Of course. They would have heard about that.”

Zeno shrugged. “Point is, they needed a reason to think they could trust us. And you gave it to them. All you need to do is play along, and we can use it to our advantage. They get to feel secure in our alliance, nay, friendship, and we can pull the leash from the other end and make them give in to some of our demands.”

If only she hadn’t finished off that brandy hours ago. Sobering up always made this tone of his something to fear; at least when she was drunk she could get caught up in his diabolical enthusiasm. “So, what’s the catch?”

“An easy way to make people think they can trust you and let you get close is to pretend to be vulnerable. You don’t look like a threat, and they’ll think you’re more invested in helping them than yourself.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“You set the stage perfectly! All you have to do is keep it up!” He took a steadying breath. “You just have to pretend to be in love with Ulfric.”

Well, if the brandy hadn’t made her sick to her stomach, this did it. “That’s preposterous!”

But Zeno was still chortling away. “You agreed to split up when Ulfric asked you to! He only had to ask once, and you agreed.”

“It was Eha who convinced me, though!”

“And then there’s the business of you waiting outside his bedroom, drunk, talking about wanting privacy, and giving him more than a casual once-over.”

Suddenly her cheeks felt hot. “Why were they talking about that? They’re warlords, not gossiping old hens.”

“Because it’s already working!” Zeno insisted. “They know you disagree about a lot, but they think this means that they have power over us. Which means they can trust us. Which means we have a lot more power over them than we did a couple hours ago. They think, as long as you have some kind of feelings, you won’t betray them and you’ll probably keep me from doing anything very terrible. This is good! They’re going to start trusting you.”

“Not for very good reasons,” Brina sniffed.

A hand waved in the air between them dismissively. “They can’t deny that you’re powerful. And once they’re sure that you want what’s best for Skyrim and the Stormcloaks, they might even listen to you.”

“All I have to do is pretend I don’t want to spit at him whenever I see him?”

“It won’t be so bad.”

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Ha! You know it's not, though!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I try to hit my stride with this story (and it may take me a couple chapters to get things going and feel right in the direction), please know that I am super, super all for any comments or critiques! I really appreciate knowing what you think.
> 
> UPDATE: The first few chapters (up to chapter 4) have been edited to be in third person perspective. If you notice any weird perspective bullshittery still lingering, please let me know! Thank you!


	3. Slaughterfish Eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zeno goes on an important mission, with at least a few other goals on his mind.

She brought the blizzard in with her. Door open, a flurry of snow on her heels, and she was moving before a single subordinate soldier could even register her appearance to give a salute. Her armor, made in the old Nord style, bore the symbol of Talos across her chest. And though she was fully armored, Zeno knew she was a woman. He knew exactly who she was.

And she was about to walk right past him.

“Eha! Slow down, you just got here!” he said. He reached out, as if to grab her arm, but did not follow through with the motion. His hand was out, waiting, asking her to stay without any attempt to restrain her. “I was hoping to see you!”

Though her face was obscured by the helmet, he could feel her eyes on him. “Oh! You are the Dragonborn!” Her voice was distant, distracted, and her legs twitched with eagerness to see her task through. But his black eyes caught her, his intensity lighting a spark of uncertainty. “Do-- have we met?”

Only a few words exchanged between them, and already Zeno got his turn to be confused. “Have… have we _not_?”

“Excuse me. I need to find Ulfric.”

“Wait, wait! What’s this rush?” Zeno swung his legs over the bench and stood himself in front of her. “And really, are you _sure_ we didn’t meet? You are Eha, right?”

“Urgent news. I’m sorry it had to come in the middle of a feast, but a ship of soldiers has been wrecked, and I need--”

“Say no more. I’ll track down Galmar. It is Eha, right?”

But she was already gone, leaving Zeno to chew on his lip and wonder when they would have met. Was it at the New Life Festival? The whole family was there, celebrating, surely that was where he knew her! And he already knew what she looked like under the helm.

She looked like her father. He knew that because they all had the same tawny hair and blue eyes, but they shared their mother’s nose.

Or maybe not, Zeno realized whilst he trudged across the great hall of the Palace of Kings. When he spotted Galmar, he leaned tapped the old war hero’s shoulder.

Galmar turned a wary eye on the Dragonborn, offering only a short nod to indicate that he was listening to whatever important news Zeno had to impart.

“You know that Eha Kalju? Her name is _Kalju_ , right? I can’t be making this up in my head, I _swear_ I had to have met her before now…”

~~~

“You’ll have to tell me everything,” Zeno laughed. He kicked his feet up onto an obliging barrel and leaned back on his wooden crate throne. “If she does anything cute, I want you to remember so that you can tell me, or anything silly, or anything sweet. If she talks in her sleep, try to remember what she says! Just remember everything. And remember, she’ll want to drink, but don’t let her do it when there’s a sea for her to jump into. Be firm. And… What else? Oh! She gets cold at night because she’s so small, so even if she tells you that she has enough blankets, put another one on her anyway. She’ll try to be polite. Don’t fall for it. And she has a weak leg. It’s not that bad, but just don’t let her do anything reckless, and help her on and off the boat.”

Eha regarded the Dragonborn with a mirthful smirk. “She is not a child.”

“Not literally, no. But I raised her, and she’s my darling, precious Baby Sister, and so help me if anything happens to her--”

“I will protect her with my life.”

And Zeno deflated, waving his hand in the air between them. His eyes rolled to look at the narrow boat Stormcloaks were hastily preparing for the rescue mission. Looking at her was hard when her mouth was set in that righteous little line. “Yeah, yeah. I know. You know, you act tough, but underneath it, you’re so… _decent_. It’s not going to get you anywhere.”

“So be it.” Eha wore her full armor, even now in the first hours of misty dawn. Icy seaspray turned her platemail shiny and slick and the blue tabard hanging from her waist was already wet and clinging to her armored legs. Though her hair was plaited evenly and tightly, wisps of brown fluffed out to prove she hadn’t slept a wink before reporting to the docks. “Is she nearly here?”

“She ought to be. She was coming right behind me, she just wanted to talk about flowers with the little urchin girl.”

“Ah. A bit early for a street child to be about, isn’t it? Poor thing, she really ought to be sent to an orphanage, or a better home.”

~~~

It started innocently enough. “Would you please buy a flower?” She didn’t wonder why a little girl was awake and roaming the streets this early - or rather, this late, as Sofie had not been to sleep herself.

“Hm? Oh, I really need to be getting to my boat… I’m supposed to be going on a mission. But… It wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.” She was rambling to herself, but her voice was light and cheerful, cutting through the chill like a ray of springtime. The woman looked over the flowers with more interest than any of the townsfolk ever did, admiring the blossoms and happily purchasing several of what she called, “Perfect specimens. Oh, purple mountainflower has such wide petals! perfect, just perfect!”

Sofie’s job wasn’t to sell flowers, of course. It was to keep the lady still, in one place until the figure in black leathers could get close enough…

This is when the pretty Nord’s fingers would dip into her satchel while she was too distracted to notice. But something was different. This target was different. Sofie just kept her smile in place, waiting, playing her part as long as she needed to--

But nothing happened. Even as the senior thief stood behind the Imperial, right in place, she only shook her head and ducked back into the shadows.

“And… Let’s see, how about this blue mountain flower. And that’s… you know, here.” She passed a heavy purse into Sofie’s hands. “That should cover it. Try and use some of that for a cloak or something, if you can. I know what it’s like, believe me. You must be freezing. Take care, alright? I’ll have more to give when I get back!!”

She… she should have been robbed. That was how that job was supposed to go. She wasn’t supposed to just give all her money away! Why did she do that? Sofie shot a baffled look into the alley where she knew her mentor was watching, and mouthed, _Did you know she was going to give it all anyway?_

Why else would she choose not to cut the purse strings when her cue came?

As soon as the Imperial lady disappeared through the doors to the docks, Sofie ran into the narrow corridor to be caught in the arms of the Bal Molagmer.

“You did a good job distracting her,” Kynvind congratulated.

“Why did you stop?” the little girl asked.

Kynvind pet the child’s mousey hair back from her face before lifting the willfully-given purse from the urchin’s hands. “She’s with the guild. Protected.”

“She wasn’t wearing a shadowmark!” Sofie objected, tugging at her collar where the guild mark was subtly sewn in. “I looked! I always look to make sure!”

“She… hasn’t been around. It’s a bit complicated. But we’ll tell Karliah she’s here, and then we can figure out what to about her being in town. She’s got a lot to answer for. I wonder if this counts as paying the reparations for pissing off the folks in charge. It’s not as much as Vex typically asks, but technically she did pay coin into the guild, so...”

“Did she steal from a member?”

“No.”

“Did she say something mean to someone?”

“No.”

Sofie’s brows knit. “Did she break a rule? Why does she need to buy back in?”

“No, sweetroll. She just hurt a lot of feelings.”

They walked across the Gray Quarter together, hand-in-hand, until they reached the cornerclub at the furthest edge of the city. The little torch beside the door had all but gone out, glowing all the dimmer for the sun that barely illuminated the edges of the sky. Inside, everyone had retired but the staff. Malthyr swept the floor while Ambarys ran a dirty rag over the bartop in bored circles.

Near the door, the Bal Molagmer enforcer looked up with a warning sneer, but relaxed as soon as he realized who it was and went back into his end-of-shift mug of mazte.

“Karliah in?” Kynvind asked. Her hand released Sofie, and the little girl crawled into the chair opposite Thrynn.

Thrynn nodded once. “About half an hour ago. A bit scuffed up. I offered to work muscle for her tonight, but she wanted me here to keep locals from starting shit.” They were the closest thing to law that this part of Windhelm had. Which was a grim prospect indeed, being thieves and all. “Went straight to bed as soon as she got in.”

Kyn’s full lips flattened into a pout. “Oh.”

“Something the matter?”

“We ran into a lady with the guild, but Kyn says it’s complicated, and wanted to tell the boss,” Sofie explained helpfully. She kicked her legs idly beneath the table and continued, “Imperial lady, she knew a lot about flowers, but she wasn’t wearing any shadowmarks.”

“Fuck me,” growled Thrynn. “And let me guess, you can’t just leave well enough alone?”

“Of course not!” Kynvind whined.

“She left. She’s out.”

Sofie smacked her fingers against the edge of the table. “What are you talking about? Tell me!”

“Brina Valus. Used to run with the guild back in Riften, and was a part of the Bal Molagmer. A while back, she decided to become an adventurer and left.” Kynvind reached over Sofie’s head to grab Thrynn’s mug out of his hand, and took a drink. “Without a trace. If only she were that sneaky on jobs.”

“Was she not supposed to?”

Thrynn reached back and grabbed the mug back, frowning into it to see how much of it had been stolen. “The problem was that she didn’t tell anyone. Just disappeared without a word.”

“She even had jobs lined up that she just never did. Like she could flutter off and no one would care!” Kynvind shook her head in frustration. Even after nearly two years, her nose crinkled up thinking about it. “Who just runs off like that?”

“Valuses, and it’s their favorite thing to do,” Thrynn mumbled, tipping his mug back to drain what remained. “I’m having another.”

“Busy night?” Sofie asked. Her legs stopped swinging.

But Thrynn only shrugged as he reached up to run his hand through the unruly locks at the bottom of his head. It had been a good idea to shave the bottom to handle the uncommonly hot Riften summer, but now that it was growing out it just felt itchy. He untied the longer top half of his hair from its bun, setting free mead-colored cords of hair in bad need of a good brushing. “Quiet for now. But there’s talk about the city opening up. Gray Quarter is going to get crowded.”

“Why?” Sofie chirped.

“Just a hunch. But if the word on the street is true, that the Valuses are convincing Ulfric to change his views on other races. Somehow.” The thought died with another shrug. “Good news on the grand scale, but shit’s going to be ugly on the small.”

“But that’s why we’re here. We’ll keep some semblance of order, and help the people around here get what they need,” said Kynvind.

“We’ll see how optimistic you are when the city is four times more crowded with half as much money to go around.” Thrynn tromped across the bar to Ambarys for a new mug and said over his shoulder, “This ‘help the Gray Quarter’ goal was easier to swallow a couple months ago.”

Kynvind gave Sofie’s shoulder a shake. “He’s just in a bad mood now, don’t you listen to him. Everything will be fine. I’m heading to bed. You?”

The orphan’s head shook. “No. I’m not tired.”

“Suit yourself, Footpad. Just as long as you’re ready for work tomorrow night.” And she was gone, shapely hips swaying to the back of the tavern and out of sight just as Thrynn returned to his seat with another full tankard.

“Do you not want her around?”

“Kyn? You get used to her. Eventually.”

“No. The lady.”

Thrynn gave a short grunt, shifting in his chair so that he could prop his feet on the table. 

“What does that mean?”

“She’ll just leave again, if we could get her back at all. And with her running with the Stormcloaks…”

“She was really nice when I met her.”

Another grunt.

“And she’s the one who wants to help people, right? She wants the Stormcloaks to help. But that’s what we want, too, is to help people, like the Dark Elves. She’s good.”

“Never said she wasn’t.”

Sofie’s brows dropped. “So why don’t you like her?” Her expression only darkened as the senior thief pretended not to hear the question, only tipping his mug back further and drinking heavily. Swallow after swallow, like he was trying to drown himself. “Thrynn?”

“Remember,” he said on a choked breath, “how happy you were the first night here?”

Her eyes lowered. “It was the best. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate so much food.”

“Now imagine if, after that, and everything Karliah promised you, you woke up in the morning and none of us were here anymore.”

“Was that how you felt? When she left?”

Thrynn took another drink and snarled into the tankard, “And every fucking morning since.”

~~~

He only just kissed his baby sister goodbye and was still reeling from heartbreak when a Stormcloak agent intercepted him on his way back to Hjerim.

“Orders from Galmar Stonefist, Dragonborn,” he said.

“Really? Now?” Zeno yanked the parchment from the agent’s hands and gave it just a cursory look. Above the sky was still an icy canopy of misty darkness, with the edges just lightening to a murky grey, and Zeno’s eyes couldn’t quite find their focus. “Tell him I’ll report in in the afternoon. I’ve had all of two hours’ sleep and I just don’t have the patience. What’s he even doing awake at this hour anyway?”

“Th-there’s work to be done,” the recruit, poor fool, answered meekly.

But the Dragonborn was already skulking away, shaking his head with each crunching step in the iced-over snow. Not this early. Talos help them all if they made a habit of pissing him off _this early._

~~~

Kynvind pulled at the buckles of her leathers the moment she was behind the bar and had her top open before she’d made it up the first flight of stairs. Waiting at the top, a familiar willowy silhouette stood with perfect stillness that if Kynvind hadn’t known to expect her, she might not have realized her company at all.

“You heard?”

“Yes. If she is back in our grasp, we have only to gain by taking advantage of our connections,” Karliah said. “And if it is true that her goals compliment ours, we must reach out to her.”

“You say that, but let’s not forget that it won’t just be putting faith in our dear friend and abandonment-expert. It’ll be putting faith in Ulfric _and_ Zeno, too. Do we really want that? And…” The Nord’s volume dropped. “I didn’t say anything to Thrynn, and I don’t know what he has or hasn’t heard of the gossip. But apparently there’s something going on between Brina and Ulfric Stormcloak. Can we trust her, and even if we can, is it worth what it might do to Thrynn?”

Karliah’s lips lifted into a half-smile. “You worry too much. He’s far stronger than you give him credit for.”

“He’s far more sensitive than anyone wants to believe,” Kynvind said. “In every other regard, yes, he’s the strongest man I know. He can brush off a lot of things, but there are two things he can’t, and Brina is one of them. If she’s fucking Ulfric not a day after coming to Windhelm--”

“Thrynn will have to learn to set that aside for the greater good.”

“Right. Because _you_ know how easy it is to move on from true love. Of course.”

“Kyn, don’t start.” Not the Karliah would let her. She was already turning around to go to their quarters beneath the second flight of stairs.

“Not starting anything,” Kynvind sighed.

~~~

He came into the Palace of Kings as promised, just after noon, rested yet grumbling, armored in his unusual black and red leathers under nondescript old traveling clothes. He sauntered into the war room, waving Galmar’s orders in his hand and wrinkling his nose.

Around the table stood the main pair themselves, Galmar and Ulfric, and a few other faces Zeno may or may not have been introduced to at the party the night before. If he met them, their faces had all just blended into the sea of beards and scowls. Just a bunch of hairy northmen, they all looked a half-step from trolls anyway.

“Parted from my sister, and then not even allowed to have a day to rest off the road? You’re a cruel leader, Ulfric, if this is what I’m to expect,” he pouted.

But no one paid his grousing any heed. All the grizzled warriors were watching Ulfric and Galmar intently as the two faced each other, locked in heated debate.

“...wasting time and dwindling resources chasing a legend. We don't even know it exists!” Ulfric was saying. He reached across the war table to snatch a unit piece from the snowy expanse of the southern Pale to move it further north toward the fort.

“We’ve already talked it over, and you’ve already agreed! The Jarls are upset. They don't all support you. They demand the moot.” Galmar, having none of it, looked to the rest of the room for someone to take his side. All the surrounding advisors and commanders shook their heads or kept their eyes trained on the age-yellowed swath of parchment. Not everyone could get away with telling Ulfric he was wrong, and they wouldn’t dare trying.

And Ulfric was not backing down, even from his closest friend. “Damn the Jarls,” he spat, “And damn the Moot! We should risk letting those milkdrinkers put Thorryg's woman on the throne? She'll hand Skyrim over to the elves on a silver plate. We have more important things to worry about, and can only stand to lose if we indulge them in their games.”

“All the more reason then. The crown would legitimize your claim.” Galmar took another glance around the room. This time, the spectators offered little nods of agreement, at least.

“A crown doesn't make a king,” Ulfric said.

“Neither does being a racist old ass, and yet, there you are,” Zeno muttered. His eyes were rolling so hard he was getting a headache, and yet with every bit of banter passed between them, he simply couldn’t stop.

Galmar set a firm hand on his master’s shoulder, his eyes stern yet emphatic. “It'll be the symbol of the righteousness of our cause. Think about it.” He paused, and his eyes went far away, as if he were looking over Ulfric’s shoulder and straight into a scene of a distant era. “The Jagged Crown! It heralds back to a time before jarls and moots. Back to the time when a king was a king because his enemies fell before him, and his people rose because they loved him. Skyrim needs that king. You will be that king, Ulfric. You must be.”

The other old fools already thought he was, Zeno thought, seeing the same glisten in every other Nord’s eye in the room.

But this wasn’t about Ulfric. It was about Skyrim, and Talos, and beating the damn Aldmeri Dominion into submission. Of course, the leader was their symbol of all that, wasn’t he? Born into Nord nobility, raised to be a warlord from the first moment he drew breath, he had seen and suffered treachery of the Empire and Dominion years ago. There was no one better, and yet, Zeno’s mouth got bitter just imagining him on the throne.

Perhaps Sister had a point, he mused. Perhaps he could be persuaded into becoming more… palatable to the masses. He’d have to start by making Skyrim for more than just the Nords, but if he started there, and kept at it, he might just become respectable one day.

Would this Jagged Crown make him so? It might be a start.

He’d been entirely rapt in thought when his attention was brought back by a pointed look from Ulfric across the table. He held aloft a little piece like a pawn and slid it into position in the Pale. It would appear that Galmar had won. “Fine. I’ll send the Dragonborn with you, as we agreed before. Fancy a crawl through a moldering dungeon to see if you can't stir up Galmar's Jagged Crown?”

Zeno scoffed. A ruin? He could handle a ruin in his sleep, thank you. He’d more been looking forward to fighting living people, carving his way through the ranks of Imperial soldiers in glorious, bloody battle. If all he was doing here was just more of the same dungeon-delving adventuring, he wouldn’t have bothered oiling his armor before coming! He’d gotten all dressed up for nothing!

~~~

Traveling, wandering, the life of an adventurer had been Zeno’s path for a very long time now. The times of footsores and weariness were long behind him, replaced by respect for the wide wilderness. He no longer avoided the dangerous roads, but reveled in the majesty of the views they provided, and laughed at the steep slopes conquered.

The soldiers kept their heads down, their grievances to themselves, and sometimes made note of the unseasonable snowfall, “a bit too early in the season, wouldn’t you say?” Otherwise, they seemed entirely unimpressed, unfazed by the craggy mountains on each end of the horizon or the towering pines reaching from the rocky ground and into Oblivion. They were too quiet, Zeno decided, too professional and focused to be weary and too jaded to be humbled, and it made for boring traveling companions.

Ah, but of course there must be an exception! There always is one!

After three nights on the road, Zeno’s eyes caught a familiar face. They stood for a moment, the rest of the small force continued to march around them.

“Don’t tell me,” Zeno said. “I know I know your name, just give me a minute… We met in… Falkreath?”

“Close,” the soldier said, a smile spreading across his shaggy face. “Helgen.”

“Fiery barrels of shit, Ralof!” Zeno all but shoved a poor soldier out of the way to get at the man, throwing his arms around the Nord’s shoulders in a hug.

“Here I thought you wouldn’t remember me!” Ralof, nearly a head taller than the compact Imperial, laughed a rumbling sound that echoed over the snowy landscape. “I knew you were with the party, but I didn’t want to bother you. The rumors, you know?”

“That I kill people? Fuck, Ralof, you _knew_ that. The three of us wouldn’t have survived Helgen if I didn’t.” He slapped the Nord’s shoulder and together, the two started after the others in a leisurely pace. “Been years! But no, you don’t spend three days trapped underneath a collapsed fort and forget the men you fought your way out with. By the Nine, you look better when you haven’t been held prisoner and starved for a week!”

“Same to you! Last I saw, your face was one big bruise!”

“Rocks are heavy, go fucking figure. So, you’re up in the ranks, yeah? Being taken by Galmar for secret-special missions?”

The blonde shrugged, the wool on his shoulders lifting by several inches with the motion. “I just go where they tell me. Whether the mission is one I want or not. Those old ruins, that’s where we’re headed. My father always told me to stay away from them. I get chills just thinking that we’ll be stomping our way through sacred grounds. As likely to be haunted as it is to be filled with giant spiders and worse.”

“It’ll be fine. Just watch your step and never trust wooden walkways when you can help it. Expert advice from the resident graverobber.” Everything else came with experience, he thought. And it wasn’t like these warriors would be spending too much time skulking around through old barrows over the course of the war.

Honestly, they could have just sent Zeno alone and he’d have gotten that damn crown himself, without having to drag threescore soldiers out.

They came upon the barrow after another day of non-stop marching through knee-deep snow, breaking through the woods and into the clearer landscape where Pale met Whiterun Hold.

The barrow was mostly underground, carved into the crags of what Zeno supposed must have started as a natural cleft in the land. The rock was mostly stable, nothing too loose to be wary of as they descended stone steps into the ruin. All was silent, the tomb still and, by all appearances, dead.

“It’s unlikely that the Imperials will come traipsing around here of all places,” Galmar said as the party worked its way to the door. “But the rats have surprised us before. I want three of you to stay out here, give the signal if you see anything suspicious. Everyone else, onward.”

It was a good plan, Zeno thought, following along into the entrance. Like most of the old barrows, it started with a tiny entry room that opened into a huge first chamber. Dark and cold as the dead contained beneath them, the first order of business was lighting torches and bringing braziers to life around the room. Once again, they left a couple soldiers behind there.

The problem with the structure of barrows, and the very good reason for leaving a trail of sentries, was that the buildings typically had a linear layout. If they were attacked, by anything, the whole party could easily be cornered, or snuck up on without any notice until it was far too late. If a cave-in happened, there could be people who could assist, or go for help if necessary. To have the entire group all easily contained or cornered, however, wouldn’t bode well for them. Every few chambers, Galmar waved two or three men to stay behind.

Without his sister, Galmar could not tell if Zeno was easy to deal with, or exponentially worse. There was always the chance that he would snap, and the knowledge that if he lost control and went on a rampage the one person who could stop his was miles away left everyone watching their tones and giving him wide berth. This man, their hero, was only a hero if he was on a leash. Any other time, he was a fire rune on the floor, just waiting for some hapless fool to make the wrong move. Their expedition into the depths of the barrow was punctuated by glances in his direction. As long as he kept his composure, everything would be alright for them.

It was like Galmar could see into the fucking future, Zeno mused when shouts echoed from behind them down empty corridors. “What was that, about Imperials not coming down here?” he asked.

“Damn, and they were only behind us by a couple of hours,” Galmar hissed, pulling his axe from his back. “Their spies work quickly. Dragonborn, can you--?”

“Say no more!” Dagger out, grin spreading, the Listener was gone into the shadows in an instant.

To be sure, the tales of his talents were not exaggerated. Whether he was shouting a whole unit of Imperials from the stone catwalks, or running ahead to leave the scouts who’d snuck past them dead in a pool of blood before the Stormcloak force got to the intended ambush point, he was destruction made manifest. He was made only more chilling by the occasional burst of laughter that rang to them down the halls, like the sound of a Daedra at brutal play.

Zeno could slice through an enemy squad like a saw through wood; effective, but messy. None who saw him in the aftermath between skirmishes, smattered with blood and grinning victoriously, could think him much a hero, especially with their reflection looking back at them through the red-stained metal of his dagger.

He rejoined them down in the crypt, startling four of the six remaining Stormcloaks at his sudden reappearance behind them in the small atrium at the bottom of the steps.

“Thought you were a thrice-damned draugr!” Ralof barked. “There are undead in this place -- have you seen them?! You can’t just go jumping out at people!”

Zeno waved him off. “I killed about two dozen, but they definitely brought more people than us. Whether they found a different corridor or some other entrance, I don’t know, but I’m seeing evidence of way more soldiers than I’ve killed.”

“So where are they now?” Galmar asked impatiently.

“Trying to beat us to the crown. No time to spare, if they found a quicker route. Hopefully our way leads us to where we need to be,” Ralof said.

“... _Zun haal!_ ”

“Ralof, see what you’ve done!” Zeno said as he hurried past them. “This is why you’re supposed to knock on wood while you say shit! Cursed us…!”

Just out of the atrium, they found the innermost chamber. Crumbled walls, broken pillars, carvings and art now diminished to wreckage and dust littered the once-grand room. And there in the center, on a raised dais, a draugr with a hideous crown chopped one Imperial’s head clear off his shoulders.

Ralof’s arrow sang through the air a moment later, and the blue light in one of its eyes went out as the wooden shaft bloomed from its leathery skull. It was a start.

While half the Imperials tried to fight off the zombies, the other half turned their attention to the Nords, and the whole room immediately descended into utter chaos. Zeno caught himself in a battle with the crown-wearing draugr and two Imperials, pressed on all sides to turn, parry, dodge, swipe every which way to keep from getting skewered. He kept only his dagger in hand, though, and left his sword at his hip. He needed one hand free if he was going to maneuver the way he needed to, to get out of this on top!

“ _Yol toor shul!_ ” He couldn’t slow down to see if it worked or not, but he didn’t have to. The sounds of horrified screams and the glow of fire left in the wake of his shout were all the confirmation that he needed before shoving the Imperials out of the way and slashing Mehrune’s Razor across the draugr’s neck.

“ _Fus ro dah!_ ”

Shit. Zeno’s eyes went wide at that familiar phrase, and before it even finished, he was crying out, “Get out of the way!”

If there was one unfortunate shout that every fucking draugr knew, it was the shout most likely to bring crumbling old ruins down on them.

“The crown!” Galmar demanded. But already, the shout had hit a wall and rocks were tumbling down from above. All around them, a sound like rolling thunder filled the room.

“Not worth my life!” Zeno yelled in time with a pillar falling across the floor and crushing one of the draugr demonstratively. “Come on! Now!”

The two warring parties split, leaving a cluster of confused and angry draugr in the middle of the disaster. The Stormcloaks broke away, heading for what appeared to be an escape at the back while the Imperials retreated the way the Stormcloaks had come. Zeno only paused to glance at a wall on the way, muttering something under his breath when he finally came sprinting after his companions up a narrow set of stairs.

They’d get out, but empty-handed, it seemed.

“Better than crushed,” Ralof said, brushing debris out of his cloak when they finally emerged from the barrow. Most of it was still intact, but the most important chamber would likely never be accessible again.

Galmar spent most of the following hours shaking his head and clenching his fists, but the atmosphere warmed when more Stormcloaks shuffled out of the ruins to meet them at their nearby camp, telling tale of their own battles and they own escape from the barrow. With most of their party still alive and accounted for, the survivors had a lot to be relieved for.

When the excitement faded, the terrible glint in his eyes mostly died and Zeno could recline by the campfire and share some conversation. He was all chuckles and smiles, happy to contribute to a lighter mood in light of their failed mission. Full of tales, well-versed in popular stories of battles and heroics, he crowed some of his favorite stories without fear of Imperials being attracted to the sound. There was such confidence, such fearlessness, that the battered Stormcloaks forgot to be afraid, or even forgot that they had just narrowly escaped a battlefield. It seemed there were two men sharing one face, one who came out in moments of peace and one who terrorized the battlefield like a berserk dragon or unholy monster.

And they could switch at any moment without the sister to hold his composure together, Galmar knew. Their Dragonborn could be unpredictable, dangerous, and untrustworthy. A beast to be controlled, but perhaps never tamed by any but her.

“Dragonborn,” Galmar said from across the central campfire. Most of the soldiers were winding down for the night, preparing to get as much rest as they could before they were back on the road to return to Windhelm. “You’ve done well, for all your complaints about being apart from the Spirit. Does this mean we can expect you in battle beside us more?”

By Shor’s beard, he hoped Zeno leaving behind his sister willingly would make him less mercurial.

But Zeno just laughed a low sound that rumbled the back of his throat. “It depends on what Sister says. I hate to leave her all alone in Windhelm.”

“She will have her own missions to see to,” Galmar promised.

“Ah, well…” Zeno shrugged. “She seemed hopeful to spend more time there. I think she enjoyed her stay, however brief.”

“The city must be nice, after so long on the road.”

“I think she was more interested in the company,” said Zeno, and he took a sip of something out of a scratched and beaten metal flask.

Galmar straightened at the news. “I see. If that is so, I will have to tell Ulfric. He would welcome her.”

Zeno nodded. “I think Sister would be glad to hear that. He did leave an impression on her.” Another sip, a longer one this time. “Don’t tell her I told you. She gets embarrassed.”

“And why would she be embarrassed?”

“Hm? Oh, no reason. Forget I said anything.”


	4. Pine Thrush Egg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has bad ideas, and they're only getting worse.

“Justiciar Ondolemar!”

Taproot eyes turned up from the reports on his desk desk only to see which of his subordinates called for his attention. As he realized it was one of his lesser agents, a fledgling guard on his first mission outside Summerset, Ondolemar immediately returned his focus to the documents. Surely this one had nothing particularly important to say. Probably just about to ask to be relieved early since Understone Keep had been so uncommonly quiet of late.

“Sir,” the guard sputtered breathlessly, “just arrived-- Zeno--”

Ondolemar’s eyes went wide and shot to the guard.

“--tha has just arrived! She awaits-- an audience!”

It was then that Ondolemar realized that there was a shuffling of feet behind the door, just out of sight. And despite himself, and knowing that was no doubt the junior Justiciar was just on the other side, he clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Oh. Zenotha. In the future, please make your reports properly, as not to inflate my expectations.”

Her eyes were rolling as she entered the room. It wasn’t his fault that her name made her sound like infinitely better news than she was. Taller than he, with a straighter back, narrower eyes, and a perpetual grimace, she might have gotten her position in the Thalmor for her perfect justiciar appearance. What she lacked was tangible success for her efforts. One could stand tall as the grandest general, but without result, she would receive no such honor. How many years had she served in this frozen province without any promotion or recognition?

“Ondolemar, my report from Solitude. I would go over the details with you personally.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“You should know, while I was there--”

“I’ll read it in your report, Zenotha. You are dismissed.”

“The Dragonborn--” she wouldn’t say his name. It had been hers first, long before the brat was even born, “--has vacated his home in the city. Jordis has been less and less cooperative, but intelligence from elsewhere confirms it anyway: the Dragonslayers have made it to Windhelm.”

Ondolemar nodded. Such had been the rumor for many months now. But now speculation was an inconvenient reality. “Jordis would not follow?”

“Not to spy on our behalf. She will play along, to some extent, if we leave her in a relative peace. some information we can somewhat trust is better than pushing her too far. We conceded, but that means we no longer have a reliable spy on the Valuses.”

“We have enough agents to the East. Find someone--”

“I would go myself. If I may, I have been following the family for years now. I do not wish to play their games hundreds of miles from them.”

To his credit, he somewhat tried to contain his sharp, nasal chortle. “Years, and with no fruits to your labor. Oversee the spies we send to watch them, but do not waste your time trying to pursue them yourself, and clear your every move with me first. Luck has never been on your side.”

She left in a huff; her attitude would be warranted if she’d earned back any respect from him. But under her leadership, two promising Thalmor warriors had died, and one very respected wizard had been captured and later killed. And for all the losses in her mission, not one of the Valuses had been obtained. Zenotha was a smear on Ondolemar’s otherwise gleaming reputation.

With her gone Ondolemar could turn his attention back to his desk. The reports were quickly forgotten, however, in favor of a blank sheet of vellum. He had a letter to write, and he had to make sure it moved faster than Zenotha.

~~~

Getting everyone healed up well enough to brave the journey back home took days, but the decision held water when they considered how much worse the casualties could have been if they’d rushed it. Many died between the shipwreck and being stranded without any supplies on an island of snow, but since Eha and Brina’s arrival, not a single death occurred. The island suddenly sprouted tents, which stayed for nearly a week until brina could responsibly assure Commander Eha that the wounded and weak could survive traversing the frigid waters once again.

Their last day Brina spent at the top of the island’s rocky little hill. The Serpent Stone stood defiantly against the icy ocean winds, and provided her with a decent shield to stare out at Winterhold. The College towered over everything with its shining pillars of primordial energy and graceful towers, while the rest of the city sat in miserable shambles at the top and broken bottom of the cliffs. Certain rough parts of the cliff face had caught bits of roof and wall, while the beach below was cluttered with what wreckage had not been swept into the sea.

Like many places, this city had briefly been a home to her once. But was anyplace ever really a home, now that Brina could compare it to the warmth and comfort of Brother’s side? She could scarcely remember a time without him.

“Are you ready?” Brina heard Eha’s voice from behind her.

She wore her armor proudly, and would most the trip if she could help it. Beneath the steel, she wrapped her body in padding and wool; must have been toasty warm in there, besides making her extra-intimidating.

“Yes, but please, get the soldiers on the boat first. Make sure they’re comfortable, and everyone else can fit around them.” Brina stood and shook the snow from the black robes, and to further stave off the cold, brought fire to life in her hands.

Eha’s feet shifted at her casual display of magic; even healing the shipwrecked Stormcloaks made her jaw go taught to watch. Of course, Brina knew such suspicion rang in the hearts of many Nords, and had caught their glances for much of this trip. Only those who knew of her before, the folks hailing from Eastern Skyrim and the Rift especially, showed no such nervousness at first.

But now? Well, as they went down to the boat and watched them get loaded up with people and the camp, not a single scowl greeted me. Men sat up in her presence, or bowed their head, and even a few salutes came her way. Dozens of soldiers who Brina had first seen caked in blood and wounded now made their way onto the ship, clean and healthy and--by the gods, it was hard to believe she had saved them all!

Brina could not wear the mantle of a hero like Brother could, but this felt close. This felt, perhaps, even more meaningful. Lives were placed in her hand, entrusted to her. And she didn’t let them down.

Years of her life had been spent cold and afraid, alone and hurting. How had that frightened child come so far? Sure, running any distance left her gasping and retching, her left leg ached badly if it got too cold, and despite Zeno’s best efforts she had no coordination for blade nor staff nor bow. But in somehow, she’d survived. Somehow, she’d found her way. And this winding path had led her to a power Brina never would have guessed for herself, and a reputation she couldn’t have anticipated.

Once upon a time, she’d met an old Thalmor wizard, a self-proclaimed scholar. He would not see her captured, and he once said that he was curious what Brina could become if left free. Was this what he’d pictured? Had he seen that terrified girl in the snow, stab wound in her ribs and tears down her face, and imagined the Spirit of the Rift?

Brina was getting too introspective again. Thinking too hard never helped anything -- it only ever made her melancholy these days. And without Zeno to distract her, she’d been left to her thoughts more than she’d usually like. Brina shook the heavy thoughts out of her head and descended beneath deck. There was use for her, duties to keep her mind occupied, and potions to brew. Not enough time to brew a batch of ale, but maybe Brina could speed the fermentation process along with a few oils she’d been experimenting with...

She was, after all, an alchemist. It was just research, she assured herself as she gave a disappointed pat to where the tin flask usually sat in her bandolier.

~~~~

A hawk went as soon as Windhelm appeared in the distance, the trained messenger bird carrying Eha’s preliminary report. Brina watched her tie the page to their leg, just a single paper with neatly-written, concise notes on only the hard facts. Number of casualties in the wreck, days spent in transit, days spent camping on the island, resources spent, any signs of other ships or activity that she caught, all scrawled in a small, even script.

“Galmar will know of our success,” Eha said as they watched the bird soar over the icy water and straight to the stone city still miles away. “Perhaps, when we get back, we’ll have some time to revel in our victory over the sea. Or time to sleep!”

“Your expectations are high, if you’re thinking of rest,” Brina said, only half joking. Rolling back and forth on waves did nothing for her sleep. By now she probably had circles dark as Oblivion around her eyes, not that she had a mirror to see. Her hair, kicked up by wind, frozen with snow, and sprayed with salt water for the last few couple of weeks, probably was an absolute mess and she dreaded to face the challenge of grooming herself after this.

And somehow, Eha looked beautiful. Her features were strong like the rest of her family, hair always plaited and managed, youthful but intimidating from whatever direction Brina viewed her. The blue of her tabard reflected in her eyes. She wore the banner of the Stormcloak with pride, with purpose, regal as any duchess in a fine gown.

“Eha.” Brina made sure to lower her voice and glance over her shoulder at the soldiers who all were eagerly taking them the final stretch. “How do you feel about the whole Skyrim-for-the-Nords business?”

“Rubbish,” she answered at full, unapologetic volume. “The older folk tell me I’m naive, because I wasn’t yet born when the Great War was fought. But I have seen better archers in Khajiit traveling the roads, better swordsmen in Dunmer from the east and living in squalor in the slums, and wiser men in Bretons of the Warrens. Even if we’re only thinking practically, no one can deny that this war will be sooner won if the people of Skyrim are united.”

“And not thinking practically? What about personally?”

“I’m on your side on all counts. I would be lying if I said I knew many mer, or have met many throughout my life, but I know better to believe that they must all be evil never trusted. Nothing in this world is so black-and-white. To treat anyone like it is all that simple is unjust. They live here, and if they will call it their home, and love it like home, then Skyrim is their home indeed. As it is for you, ‘Spirit of the Rift.’ Does that answer your question?”

“I have one more.”

She smiled a knowing smile, blue eyes making a sidelong glance to look her over. “You want my support in your cause?”

Brina’s tongue ran over her lips. Eha saw through her so well. Too well for only having spent a couple of weeks together. “Well?” Her voice cracked as she asked. If it was just her and Zeno against Galmar and Ulfric, she feared for how long it would take to make any progress.

“Yes, Stone-Cat, I’ll make it clear that I side with you on the matter. All things considered, even if they can’t remove themselves from the prejudices ingrained in the old war, they cannot deny how much better off we’d be with the support of every non-Nord in the kingdom. They’ll see reason, one way or another.” She paused and set her steely eyes on the stone wall of the city that loomed ahead. “But do not forget, the Red Year was two hundred years ago. The resentment of the refugees is long ingrained in the people of Skyrim, and the Grey Quarter as we know it has existed far before Ulfric or his father ever sat upon their throne. Consider that it is not that Ulfric hates anyone, save the Empire and the Thalmor; it is that he has the larger population to appease.”

“That’s an excuse,” Brina hissed. “And not a good one, or even a correct one.”

“A burdensome excuse, indeed. I am glad to have you to tell him that.”

Thank the Eight and Talos, she thought with an inward sigh of relief. One person to count on! they stood together on the deck of the ship and watched the city draw closer. The Argonians on the docks helped moor the ship, a great swarm of hands that all came out at once for the Stormcloaks. Over their heads, behind all the bustle, was a familiar crown of black curls.

“Big Brother!” Brina cried.

Though she could barely see him over the commotion, she heard clearly, cutting through the banter, “Sister!”

Brina was the first off the ship, pushing through the crowd and finding him through the mess of bodies as easily as if he’d been a beacon. Arms clamped tight around her, and he kissed her before she could even manage a good look at him.

“I missed you!” he gasped.

“I missed you, too!”

“Separating was a terrible idea!”

“It was! I’m sorry! I was so bored and lonely the whole time!”

“Ugh! How do you think I feel? You at least got to spend time with a Kalju. I’ve just been hanging around with Ulfric and Galmar.” He pretended to retch. “Speaking of, come with me--”

“--I think Eha expected me to report with her--”

“She’ll be fine on her own. We’ll get you cleaned up, and then, I have some new dresses for you!”

Brina’s brows knit. She glanced around to see if anyone else caught his odd change of subject, but everyone was still busy moving people and supplies off the boat. “You think I should skip out on reporting to Ulfric for dresses? Brother, I saved about two dozen people! I’d like to gloat, I think!”

“Hey, now. I’ve been working very hard while you’ve been away, so it’s only fair if you put in some effort, too. These are nice dresses, and since they’re cut all simply and stupid like the fashion here, you’ll be very comfortable. And I’m thinking, for your hair, maybe in a knot. You have a pretty neck.” He lifted her nest of hair demonstratively. “We’ll get you in a bath and have you ready by supper time.”

“If you wanted to celebrate just us, we don’t need anything fancy for Candlehearth,” Brina argued.

“Oh, if only I could have you all to myself!” he moaned like a martyr. “No, not us two. You two. You and Ulfric, alone, and believe me, convincing him was a nightma--”

Her nostrils flared, and between being unwashed and ragged and angry as a slaughterfish, she must have looked like quite the little goblin. “What did you do?”

“Just arranged for you to talk to him a bit!” he exclaimed defensively.

“What did you say?!”

“That you would like to know him better!” He waved his hands in front of himself, all innocence and disarming smiles. “Nothing incriminating or rude!”

“How much better, exactly?! Brother, I--”

“If you have complaints,” Zeno said as he caught her arm and started for the gate into the city proper, “let’s discuss them back at home, hm? Away from all these people who might overhear,” and his voice rose, ever-so-slightly, “how excited you are to spend some time alone with Ulfric!”

Brina hissed, “Brother, really!”

“Hush-shush!” He continued to pull her away, but leaned into her ear to add, “You met him once, then went off on a mission for a few weeks! Without you even needing to be here, I’ve got them convinced that you’re sighing the days away for him. And it’s working! Let them think that they have you, and therefore, us. They’ll be inclined to keep it that way, and will give in to us more. Also, they’ll play nicer with us if they think you’re actually loyal to them. Everyone knows that we’re very, very Imperial, after all, and most of them realize that our loyalty is based only on a few small points of agreement. We need this, if they’re going to trust us or take us seriously--”

“Then you pretend to be in love with Ulfric, how about?!”

Zeno just laughed, a little too boisterously, a little too loudly. “Oh, my playful Sister! You and your jokes!” Then, dropping his voice to a private purr, “I’m asking you to have a king’s meal in a castle. Is it really so bad? Just enjoy supper, make some small talk, and don’t dive across the table to claw his eyes out, which you know _I_ would do, given the chance. How else are we supposed to make this alliance work?”

“I don’t know, built upon the foundation of honesty and respect?”

“Of which we have neither, so we have to find a new way--”

“We have neither? Who in the fuck is this _we_ who lacks honesty, exactly?” He was the one spreading lies, thank you very much!

“We are a team,” Zeno said, and that wrenched a groan from Brina. “My lack of honesty is yours.”

The lies he’d been telling made a pit in her stomach, but they were _their_ lies now. If he’d worked hard to sow these seeds of intrigue, she would help him reap whatever fruits grew of his labor, even if they were the ugly, bitter things she expected.

“And my pretty dresses and fluttering eyelashes are yours, hm? Since we’re a team?”

“You think you’re joking.”

By now they were ambling up through to the upper residential district. Their bickering had taken them all the way to their door across the entire city. And as nice as it was to stretch her legs a bit after being cooped up on that boat for so long, going from no movement to walking miles across the city made her feet ache.

“That doesn’t seem very fair,” she pouted. “I have to carry the burden of your untrustworthiness, and you just get to play and have fun! What do I get out of this team that’s good?”

Heavy iron key in hand, Zeno made short of the lock on their door. It was as fine any lock anywhere, with a cross of pins that required an x-shaped key. Woe to any thief wanting inside! She heard every pin go into place, about two-dozen little clicks, and then he threw the door open for her and dropped into a little bow as she passed him. As soon as she was inside, he slipped in and hurriedly closed and clocked the door behind him.

“What do you get?” he repeated, an edge of excitement coming over him. Leather gloves wrapped around her hand and tugged her up toward the stairs. “I’ll show you what you get!”

“You might be overestimating how much I like dresses, Brother.”

“Oh, it’s not a dress! Calder! Hey, Calder, you got the bath ready?”

Their home, Hjerim, felt like two different places. Once upon a time, Brina’d been running for her life from the Butcher of Windhelm, naked and covered in blood, her own and others’, across the cold and dusty floor in the dark. But now it was a gleaming gem in the crown of Windhelm, bright and beautiful inside and out. Zeno replaced the window she jumped through in her escape with a lovely stained glass mosaic like in the chapels back home, and eventually changed out all of the glass so that they were all like precious stones glittering in the bright silver frames. The floors were always clean and covered in soft rugs, and wood received a polish on very regular basis whether or not they were there or on the road for months on end. To Brina, this was an entirely different place than when she’d been held captive here.

Warm and comforting, it smelled like her Brother. Except for the back of the house, which had been made into an alchemy room for her and smelled of herbs and spices and fungus and all manner of things; once her prison, Zeno had set a huge pot of Timsa-come-by in the corner, and just like that any revulsion she still had for that room disappeared. Sometimes she worried that she’d gotten over the ordeal too easily. Being with Zeno made it easy not to be affected.

Being around her Brother made it easy to forget, or ignore, all the things that ought to bother her.

Zeno made everything in her life feel warm and safe. Masser, to eclipse the burning sun, blocking out and hiding anything unpleasant from her heart or mind. With a Timsa-come-by plant and a new crystal alembic, she could completely forget the patchwork of body parts she’d woken up beside.

He tugged her all the way up the lacquered wooden steps, to their bedroom at the front face of the mansion where their housecarl prepared a large copper basin for her just in front of their bed. And, practically dancing as he went, Zeno brought her to the dresser where his trusty leather pack sat. “Close your eyes! Yes, I know, I’ve put you in a tough spot, and I’m sorry. But besides the dress and all that, here’s my real gift for you!”

~~~~

The wind howled beautifully in her ears, a mournful song she’d known since childhood. Kynvind stood on the icy ledge nearby the cornerclub, overlooking the shadowy streets beside her boss.

More than just her boss.

Karliah was everything, masterful thief, skilled tactician, a force to be reckoned with, and personally chosen by Nocturnal herself. Idol, friend, the list went on and on of just what Karliah was to the blond Nord.

The world, Kynvind decided finally, after many minutes of just watching the Dunmer woman’s stoic face.

So sharp and angular, almost avian. By the Nine, how did anyone turn out so perfect?

Well, she thought, lowering her brows despite herself at the thought, she wasn’t perfect. For being one of the three Nightingales, the seniormost member of the guild, and the Guild Third, she lacked a lot of emotional awareness. Specifically when it came to he needs and desires of her subordinates. Thrynn was on edge all the time, getting progressively angrier with every errant rumor that worked its way down to the Gray Quarter, and Kynvind was beside herself with--

With staring at Karliah’s face while she wasn’t looking. And other places, too, if she thought she could get away with it. The way her leathers hugged around Karliah’s lithe form, or--

Kynvind cleared her throat and turned her eyes back out to the snowy avenue. “Quiet night.”

“For now. But we must be prepared; if the city opens up, this quarter will be far more crowded, at a faster rate than I am confident we can maintain control in.” Karliah said.

“...Yeah.”

Those purple eyes turned on her companion, sizing up the Nord who was shuffling a bit, swaying side-to-side in the wind. Every once in awhile, her sways would make their sides gently touch. Kynvind wondered how much of it the boss actually caught. “Are you well?” aforementioned boss asked. “You seem distracted.”

“...Yeah. A bit distracted.”

“Are you still troubled by your job last night?”

“Hm? Oh! No, not at all. Sofie is doing a great job, and I think we both learned a lot from the close call.” Kynvind slid her leather boots on the slick stone again. “But you ought to talk to her about it. When you get the chance. Boss.”

“I suppose I should. Poor thing, she takes any advice as criticism, and it makes it rather hard to give notes. I remember when I was her age, just learning the trade. It is a lot of pressure to put on a child.”

Kynvind gave an easy smile. “Oh, she’ll grow into it! Her hands are nimble and quick, and she can think on her feet. The rest will come with experience.”

“Indeed. Where has she been? I would speak with her now, while it is uneventful and calm, but I do not think she has been in for some time.”

The smile faltered, just long enough for Karliah’s sharp eyes to catch the minute twitch of Kynvind’s facial muscles before she could remind herself to regain composure. “Just making her rounds, gathering information. You know, the usual--”

“What is she up to?” Karliah wouldn’t criticize the child, of course, and they both knew it, but only because she knew her subordinate all too well and could easily place the source of her immediate grimace: guilt. “You sent her on some little quest, I take it? Please, do tell.”

Kynvind cleared her throat and straightened her back. The top of her leathers remained unfastened, exposing her cleavage to the cold air all the more as she squared her posture firmly. “Not me, actually. Boat docked, full of Stormcloaks. Word was--”

She needn’t explain further. As though summoned, the child slid down the avenue below them as much as ran, skidding to a stop against the ice beneath her feet just below the ledge the two thieves perched on. “Kyn! And oh, hello Boss!” The little girl shot a huge grin their way, showing all her teeth and the spaces where her adult teeth had yet to grow in. “The castle is going crazy! It’s so funny, listening to them talk! What is a chastity belt and why does the guard say Zeno has a key for Brina’s? Er, actually, I’ll just ask Thrynn. He told me to report in as soon as I got back!”

And those purple eyes were on Kynvind, narrowing at the sound of the that slammed behind sweet Sofie. “Why was--”

“Thrynn told her to! Not me this time!” Kynvind chirped, scurrying back into the bar as much to escape Karliah’s incoming questions as to listen in on the report as well.

~~~~

All of her hair plaited around her head made everything feel heavy. Heavy hair, heavy chain of silver around my throat, heavy dress, all coming together to remind Brina of her poor relationship with gravity.

Supposedly, this dress would be alluring, but she couldn’t imagine how. The main piece was just a plain blue dress, simplicity in its truest form. And over that, an apron of fabric that felt more like wearing an old tapestry, held in place by heavy and overwrought brooches on her shoulders. Of course Zeno insisted that it was a very Nordic fashion, but if she was supposed to be sexy, or alluring, then certainly the tactic was in keeping absolutely everything to the imagination.

Zeno fussed with her outfit and hair and jewelry all the way to the castle, often coming to a halt to adjust where the medallion laid on her chest, or pulling some of her plaits apart to rebraid them and set them higher, or lower. Even in the great hall, his attentions didn’t cease, and he utilized every moment before Ulfric came into the room pulling her apron centered and making sure that every single detail remained perfectly comfortable for his sweet sister.

“Brother? Are you nervous?” she whispered. Ulfric’s booming voice was still easily audible in the war room, and every guard and attendant eagerly went about their work while giving Zeno and Brina a wide berth, but she wouldn’t ask the question for all to hear.

He pursed his lips and gave his head one slow, uncertain shake. “He just needs to like you.”

“Your little plan isn’t the only way,” Brina reminded him.

“No, I mean, I _really_ hate the man. I think if he liked you it might actually give me something that I can agree with him on. But if he doesn’t like you, I’m not so sure I can work for him. What am I going to do if he scorns you, huh? I can’t just break his knees like that Argis. He’s -- ugh -- important! And I’m trying to find ways to understand him, and none of them are working! This might be his last chance to prove that he’s not completely hopeless.”

“You’re being dramatic, Brother,” she said. She ran a hand affectionately through the curls of his hair and down his face to caress his cheek. “You know we have our opinions on the Thalmor in common. And I’m sure we can work with them, however this works out.”

He rolled his eyes so wide that she worried he’d give himself a headache. “I can’t trust anyone who doesn’t like you.”

“A business relationship can be--”

“Just promise you won’t be drinking.” The sentiment was punctuated by a pair of strong hands on either side of her face, holding her stare so that she could see the worry and care in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t drink without you.” If they were unsure of where Brina stood with Ulfric, having the Prince of Debauchery getting involved would help positively nothing. No, their Uncle Sanguine was not invited this evening. “In fact, I’ll probably call it a night early and come right back home after supper.”

“I’ll be with Niranye for a bit, but I’ll come home tonight if you’ll be there.” And that was when he finally bid Brina farewell, pulling her close by her face while she still held his cheek so that he could place a heartfelt kiss on her forehead. He was out the door a moment later, promising to come look for her if she wasn’t home a decent hour, then gone with a swirl of snow and bang of the heavy doors.

Part of Brina’s heart cracked to feel his warmth disappear. For almost two years they were inseparable, and now, because of this stupid Stormcloak rebellion, she hadn’t had a full day with her Big Brother in weeks. Brina steeled myself against the loneliness welling up in her chest and took a look around for some much-needed perspective.

Of all the places to be alone, a damned castle wasn’t bad. And this one, with huge blazing braziers and bright sconces lighting the thick wall hangings and lush rugs, even the stone building in a city of ice managed to look cozy and welcoming. On their first visit all three of the huge tables in the great hall had been filled; tonight, only the very end of the centermost table, the seats closest to Ulfric’s throne, were set for guests.

The door to the war room was shut, low voices within so powerful that the stones reverberated like the stretched skin of a drum. The whole building was a bell, in which Ulfric’s commanding voice could echo like the roar of a fire. Or, perhaps more accurately, the roar of a dragon.

Zeno could Dragon Shout, but Ulfric had learned it through years of tenacious determination. And the blood on his hands was proof of where it had gotten him. Was he a murderer, using the tools at his disposal to eliminate a rival who he knew would side with the Empire and help facilitate Thalmor invasion? Was he irredeemable?

Maybe he could be forgiven for killing the HIgh King, maybe, if she wanted to be extremely generous with her judgment. But for other things? Well, they still had a long, long way to go.

And maybe progress was being made, very slowly, she considered as she looked again to her surroundings. A seat at the jarl’s table, before his dias. Only two seats were set, one for her and Galmar while Ulfric could loom over them from his seat above. Would a born-and-raised Imperial, copper as the Kvatch mud she was raised in, be offered a seat at the proud Nord’s table just a few years ago? His walls were wearing away even if only for for, but it was a start. Brina could chip away at them. Once, he might not have been such a xenophobic tyrant. Once, many years ago, before the betrayal at Markarth, he might have been a reasonable person. And while he couldn’t be forgiven for his wretched mistreatment of the other races, couldn’t he at least endeavor to be a better person from here out? Surely he was capable of that much!

Brina’s friends in the Grey Quarter deserved better than they got. The Stormcloaks needed more support. By the Eight and Talos, it was so obvious!

Eventually she’d had enough of shuffling her feet by the table, so she chose the seat facing the war room and made herself comfortable on the bench while she waited for their meeting to be done. They didn’t even set out any mead for her to sip on while she waited… Perhaps she’d been generous in her estimation of their hospitality...

Commander Eha left the room first, her feet stamping out the rhythm of a war-drum as she made swift leave. She crossed the great hall, casting Brina a smile, and disappeared into the barracks at the other side of the wide hall. Her steps continued to echo through the stone even after she’d gone, like a thousand soldiers marching in the distance.

“She makes an impression,” a powerful voice said, pulling Brina from her thoughts. So transfixed on Eha, she hadn’t even noticed that she’d been joined at the table.

“Jarl Ulfric!” she squeaked, startling in her seat like a frightened cat and stuttering on her first few attempts at a proper greeting. The man normally had such command over a room! He oughtn’t to be able to sneak up like that!

“Eha. She’s earned the title Stormblade; while I am not surprised she would be eager to leave for weeks at a time on a rescue mission, she is no healer. Her talent is best witnessed on the battlefield.”

“She’s an excellent leader, though,” Brina said. “Everyone respects her, and she respects them. And she always knows how to speak to her men, when to be stern and when to be gentle. She’s charismatic.”

Ulfric nodded sagely. “Yes. That charisma runs in her blood. A gift from her father.”

The ice in Brina’s veins melted when, despite herself, her straightened back bent forward with a chortle. “Well, then she got all of it from him, then. Or she stole her siblings’ shares at some point!”

Steel eyes narrowed mirthfully, but his lips just barely twitched upward. He made no move to go to his proper place at his throne. In fact, she didn’t even see Galmar anywhere, who ought to have been opposite of Brina. She nearly asked why he was sitting down here, but Ulfric spoke first, “You know her family?”

Brina’s lips, dried by the unrelenting cold of the north, cracked at the memories his simple question brought to mind. “Brother and I are close with the whole brood in Markarth. I hadn’t met Eha until joining the Stormcloaks, though.” Her arm hit the cold metal of a plate, and only then did she realize she was leaning across the table. Brina corrected her posture and added, in a lower, more polite voice, “She joined the rebellion before I came to Skyrim. But it feels like we already know her. She’s so much like her siblings. Mostly, how much she cares about people. It reminds me of her brother a lot, and it makes me feel like we were friends from the beginning. In fact, on the way to Serpentstone Isle…!”

~~~~

Usual chatter filled the cornerclub with a dull buzzing sound, punctuated every few seconds by Thrynn tapping his knuckles impatiently against the mazte-splattered tabletop. Every now and again the conversations would escalate in volume, and his head would snap in the direction of the noise. Patience was one virtue that particular Nord had none of this night, and each potential conflict had his fists clenching. Each slight flex of his tightly-wound muscles immediately quieted the bar’s clientele -- Thrynn working as security for the Grey Quarter made many a night safer for the elves, but that meant they’d all seen his indiscriminate brutality first hand, and none would dare direct it their way.

“She come back yet?” Hrolmir asked. No one looked at him, and not a word was said to acknowledge he’d spoken at all.

Instead, Kynvind heaved a sigh of her own and groaned, “Sofie sure is taking her time. She’s such a quick little thing! I don’t think it’s ever taken her so long!”

“Surely it makes you regret using a child and an agent of the Bal Molagmer for something as petty as spying on a former friend?” Karliah shot back -- but she, too, was seated at the table with everyone else as they awaited their youngest member’s return.

“Long way between us and the castle. And who knows where she went after that. Girl is thorough,” Hrolmir said.

“Say,” Kynvind began, “how long are we going to try working through this before we get Bryn over here?”

Thrynn’s growl shook the table. “We don’t need his help. We’re just keeping tabs on her. She’s supposed to be helping the Grey Quarter, and all. So the gossip goes.”

“You’re a shitty liar,” the blonde jeered back, complete with a teasing poke against the twitching vein in his bicep. “You just want your pretty lady back! And that’s fair.” They both had their fair share of trouble with the pretty ladies, didn’t they? Her blue eyes scanned Karliah briefly with the thought. “If she’s not back by morning, I’ll track her down.”

“Morning?” Karliah asked dubiously. “That is many hours for something so simple. She may be in trouble.”

“Or distracted, more likely,” Kynvind said.

Hrolmir chuckled under his breath. “If it’s true that Brina’s shacking up with Ulfric, Sofie could be waiting outside ‘til morning.”

Several of Thrynn’s knuckles popped, so quickly did his fist clench. Maybe he’d have acted on it, but then a rush of cold air sighed into the room. Sofie skittered to the table of her guildmates, where Kynvind immediately started patting the snow from the girl’s coal-colored cloak.

“What’ya got, Footpad?” Holmir asked.

And oh, did little Sofie’s eyes brighten. “I got closer than I’ve ever gotten without anyone seeing me!” she cheered. “I even went inside the castle! And I took food! I was right there, and no one even saw! It was so good!”

Although Karliah’s face was tight, mouth clamped hard, she pulled her subordinate into a congratulatory hug. “Very good job! All of your practice has truly paid off.”

“What else?” Thrynn asked. His voice was sharp, consonants bit down on and his vowels all growl, but the volume was kept low and controlled.

The reminder of her mission brought Sofie back to the moment. “Yes! Zeno is with Niranye. And Brina is with Ulfric. They’re in the castle together. Brina looks really pretty. She’s wearing a fancy dress and everything!”

“Were they discussing the Grey Quarter?” Karliah asked. “Or how she intends to help other non-Nords?”

“Er… No. It wasn’t business-y, they were just having dinner. They were talking about people. And telling stories. They were having fun… Actually, I think they were trying not to talk about anything important. I think… I think they were doing what Kyn does, when she talks about things just because she knows it won’t start a fight. Like they’re really trying to make friends. It looked like fun. Brina drank a whole lot, though. Kept saying she wasn’t gonna. Then she did.”

“Is she back home now? We could speak with her, and lay out our hopes to work with her efforts to help the people in need under Ulfric’s rule,” the Nightingale continued evenly.

Sofie gave her snow-glistening head a shake. “She didn’t lea--”

A loud bang left the rest of the room speechless. Thrynn’s balled fists hit the table, drawing long cracks through the wood, and with an abrupt jerk, he stood up and left his chair clatter to the floor behind him.

Kynvind followed his lead and leapt to her feet. “Thrynn?”

“I’m going.”

“W-wait! Be reasonable! It might not be what it looks like!”

“I don’t give a fuck what it looks like,” came his venomous reply. “I don’t care what happens between her and Ulfric, or anyone else.” He tore the cloak from the back of his toppled chair. “What I care about is that she would go and do anything, everything, without even-- without saying a damn word to me! She wants other men? Fucking fine, but when was she going to tell me not to bother waiting for her? Huh?! Or if she does still expect me to be waiting for her, does she not think it’s worth telling me she’s seeing other people in the meantime? Maybe I wouldn’t care! Maybe I just would want her to fucking tell me something for once!”

“Thrynn! What are you doing? Where are you going?!”

And for a single heartbeat, Thrynn’s lost eyes flinched. Where, indeed? To take a walk? To clear his head? The responsible answer. To go to the Palace of Kings and demand an explanation? Satisfying to imagine, but he wouldn’t make it past the outermost guards.

It only took that one moment for his lonesome expression to fall back home to a look of mild disdain, just a moment to come to the final conclusion, and he said it as if it was obvious, as though he’d been planning to do it all along, “I’m going to rob her house.”

Kynvind took an inward, screaming gasp. “Thrynn! That is not how you handle these things! What good will that even do?”

“I’ll feel better.” Thrynn crossed the silent bar to the door. “Sofie, come on. You said Zeno’s not home either, right? I’m going to teach you how to get in second-story windows--”

And of course the junior guildmate, eager to learn and even more so to please, hurried after him, giggling at the infectious surge of adrenaline.

“Wait, she’s-- just let her-- Thrynn!” Kynvind’s foot caught the leg of Thrynn’s fallen chair, and by the time she regained her footing, the pair disappeared into the night. She ran faster than Thrynn, more quietly than Sofie, and could draw every street of Windhelm from memory; if she followed, she would find them before any damage could be done, easily. Instead she watched the door close, hands wringing down on her golden hair in frustration. “Fool!”

Karliah frowned as well, but in the window of time that she might have ordered any of her remaining thieves to take up the chase, she held her tongue in her tightly-clamped jaw. At last, she said, “It does not matter. If this is what finally gives him closure, so be it.”

“But she’s protected!” said Kynvind, somewhere between angry and hopeless. “And-- she’s our friend!”

“You care about the Bal Molagmer, do you not?”

“Of course!” was the emphatic response. “More than anything!”

“So why is her personal life of so much more interest?”

“Because… she’s still not a tool. She’s still our sister in the guild. A member of Bal Molagmer. She’s just… been a bit misguided.”

“She left us,” reminded Karliah for the many-hundredth time. “She left the guild.”

But Kynvind shook her head before the curt sentiment even finished leaving Karliah’s thin lips. “It’s not like she left us. I don’t think it is. I think... since seeing Zeno around town, and everything I’ve heard… I truly don’t think she left us, I think she just went with him.”

“It is the exact same--”

Now it was Kynvind’s turn to interrupt. “N’chow! I’m sorry, boss, but you know them both better than that!” Her rude interjection at least came quietly, a lowered voice to signal to the eavesdropping patrons of the cornerclub that the conversation was now for them and them alone. She put Thrynn’s chair back to rights and slid onto it. “It had nothing to do with leaving, or running away, it had to do with her being wrapped up in a family she never thought she’d have. Saying she left us is so much more personal than it really ever was.”

“Except that Vex found her journal.”

That turned the air solid to ice, so thick that Kynvind could scarcely breathe. “Wh-what? What do you mean, after she went--?”

“Before.” Karliah’s lips set into a frown, pastel eyes closing as the words left her. “She left her journal, clearly intended for Thrynn to find. Vex found it first. Only she, Brynjolf, and myself have seen what she wrote.”

All at once, Kynvind’s breath left her in a plume of mist. “What? What did she say? Does Thrynn know about it?”

“No, and that was Vex’s decision. Her note to Thrynn was terrible, and Vex refused to have him know about it. She rather hoped that Thrynn would resent being jilted again, and would move on all the faster without knowing of it.”

“Psh. So much for Thrynn being her favorite.”

Karliah shrugged, a minute bob of her slender shoulders barely perceivable in the swirling flurries of snow around them. “It is because she has always favored him. If he cannot be happy, necessarily, she would want him to at least find contentment. Brina’s note would not have given him any peace. She offered him no closure, nor promises, just stated that she loved him and would be going with Zeno. And here he is, finding peace at long last. I will allow him to do what he must, but I know that seeing that journal would have stopped any action from him that might have given him closure. I suggest that you make peace with it as well. We shall use her connection to Ulfric to further our cause, but she is not one of us. Not anymore.”

“Where is the journal?”

Karliah’s eyes softened sympathetically. “Kynvind, please, you must let it rest.”

“No. Where is the journal? If Thrynn wouldn’t have gotten over her, what would be so bad about that? What’s so wrong with having some hope? Maybe it’s all he needed, just something to feel still connected -- just to know that she thought about him!”

The Nightingale’s voice just barely rose, “Let it be.”

“You are the very last to lecture anyone about letting go and forgetting loved ones and giving up hope. Gallus is probably throwing a fit in Evergloam, you know!”

“You are being childish. That was very different--”

“If you say so.” Kynvind turned her small nose upward. “I’m not giving up, though. She left a note. Even if it was a shitty one, she thought about him. He should have known that.”

~~~~

“What did Galmar say to that?”

“Nothing! He roared like a bear and charged,” Ulfric said. Though his face normally didn’t show the extent of his age, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes had grown pronounced in the dimming torchlight. His smile set the scar on his cheek crooked.

She couldn’t remember how much mead she’d had, just that her head was swimming and keeping her attention on him was her anchor.

Their opinions clashed too many places, but their love for their companions and friends and families made for a smooth foundation to build something better on. After explaining to him how brina watched Brother get the scar on his knee as children, Ulfric told her of Galmar’s scars. She told her experiences traveling with Eha, and Ulfric told the story of the day he met her, beating another recruit senseless for a tasteless joke and then immediately recommending her own punishment for the assault. Brina saw in the smile on his face, the pride that he wore on seeing Galmar duel on his behalf, in his honor, for the very first time. It would not be the last, that smile said; when he’d finished his story, the grin spread, eyes downcast, at the memory in what was no doubt a long collection of similar moments in their brotherhood.

She tried not to see Jarl Ulfric then. In her blurred vision, she fought to see no armor, no fine clothes, no heavy medallions fastening his ornately embroidered cloak. She focused on his smiling eyes and a nostalgic upturn of his lips, a man with people he admired and loved, people who’d let him down, with friends he’d die for and enemies he’d die to stop. This was the most relatable he’d ever been, and while she knew it wasn’t enough, knew she hated him regardless until he proved himself better, she fought hard not to see him for that. And right then, with her eyes seeing double, it was remarkably easy to do.

One more tankard of mead, and she’d be lucky to see anything at all, really.

“I… I think I’m tired,” she said, still leaning over the emptied table.

“I’ll have you escorted back to your home.”

“Won’t you take me?” Brina wanted to hear more stories. She wanted to know if his heavy fur mantle was as warm as she expected.

“Not when you’re so… tired,” he answered politely.

She didn’t mean to scoff aloud, but she did. Brina finally pulled her gaze off of his face and looked to his shoulders. Damn, but they were broad, even taking into account the extra width from his pauldrons and mantle. He had the symbol of Talos on his armor today, the symbol of Zeno’s Divine, the object of their mission. So clear, the lines strong, she could dig my fingers into the carved steel. He was not the biggest Nord she’d ever seen, but he was still over a head taller than her. He could probably lift her with one hand, without any trouble. She imagined just that. And she imagined digging her fingers into the lines on his armor. Into the fur of his mantle. Into his hair.

“Next time” he promised, that powerful voice bringing her attention back to his mouth and the strong chin, the rugged Nord beard, “I will be sure not to let you get so tired. But I still have much to do, and you should go home, lest we tempt your brother’s temper. Farewe--”

Brina was already leaning over the table, so closing the distance between their faces wasn’t hard. She still hated him. She felt the heat in her mouth when it hit his, and a considerable amount of that was contempt.

But her dear Brother specifically instructed her not to reach across the table to claw his eyes out. Surely he’d be proud of how well she was playing along with his little scheme.

She planted my lips on his, ignored the edge of the table digging into her legs, and put her hands in that fluffy mantle of his. It was thick, warm, her fingers could tangle into the fur nice and firmly to pull him closer. Not that a man so strong and large could be pulled by her weak arms, and he very pointedly, politely, kept his hands off of her and didn’t exactly return the kiss.

He did, however, finally agree to walk her back to the Stone Quarter himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proof reading, what's proof reading?
> 
> UPDATE: This chapter's been edited to finally bring the first-person shifting to an end. If you notice any weird perspective shifts, please let me know so I can fix! Also, if you notice that there's still perspective dumbness later on I forgot to fix, again, please let me know! Thank youuuuu!!


	5. Purple Mountain Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrynn thinks that burglary is the best way to get over an ex. It's not.

When Thrynn first met Brina, it was on the wall of his new bandit clan's stronghold, the ruins of Helgen. He left a couple weeks after, to take up Brynjolf's offer to join the Thieves Guild. He told himself he just couldn't trust any new clans after what happened with Garthek, but sometimes he thought about the time he saw her, covered in snow and starving, and wondered if that hadn't been the moment he gave up on being a bandit.  
  
She was the easiest target he'd ever seen. Couldn't have fought back if she wanted to. And instead of rob her, he gave her directions and told her how to get lodging and food. Maybe he was too old for highwayman life? Maybe it was time to settle down, relatively speaking?  
  
He didn't rob her. Well, that was his first mistake, and tonight, he would right it. Maybe now that act of mercy that led to acts of love could be free from his mind. Maybe, finally, he could be done with her.  
  
“Should we try the door first?” Sofie whispered. Her short legs shuffled through the snow just to keep pace with the large Nord who led her.  
  
“The lock on the front door is impossible,” Thrynn answered. His voice rattled in his throat, low, uneven. “The upstairs windows are simpler. You’ll need to stand on my shoulders, but you can get them and crawl through.”  
  
Sofie considered the course and nodded her head twice. Just like the first job he took her on, really, except that the Valuses had a hoursecarl they’d have to sneak around. When they turned down the avenue and saw the brilliant manor, Sofie chanced a glance her shaking companion’s way. “Wait, when did you check their locks?”  
  
“Hush, you. Come on, the bedroom is at the front. Housecarl doesn’t go in there, and it’ll have the best loot.”  
  
“Have you been casing their house, Thrynn?”  
  
“What part of hush don’t you get?” This kid would be the end of him. Not a soul in sight, and the heavy metal boots of passing guards made enough racket on the stone avenue that Thrynn and his small partner in crime would have plenty of warning of their approach. The chilled air, the lazy drift of snow falling around them, it lent a peaceful atmosphere that could almost settle Thrynn’s nerves. Tonight felt like a good night for closure, he told himself.  
  
He’d tell himself that as many times as it took.  
  
Thrynn lifted Sofie up to his shoulders, and she clamored the rest of the way to the sill of the bedroom window. He stayed below, to catch her, the first time when she lost her grip and slipped, and the second time when she needed to adjust her angle at the lock. The third time he lifted her up, she didn’t come back down. From the bottom of the wall, he couldn’t see inside, but a stream of light shone down on the snow and a small giggle announced her success.  
  
Though the stones were slick with ice and snow, Thrynn scaled more difficult walls many times. He followed Sofie up within seconds.  
  
“Alright. The Valuses are out for the night, and the housecarl avoids this room when they’re not in. We’re clear.”  
  
For several heartbeats, Sofie stood in the center of the room, swaying slightly, taking in the warmth and the brightness and the smells. The smells of herbs and floral oils made the air in the room feel heavy, calm. Thrynn wondered if she still put mountain flower blossoms in her bedding. She always swore it helped promote restful sleep. If it made any difference to Thrynn, he never noticed; he always slept well beside her regardless.  
  
“Everything is so beautiful,” Sofie breathed at last. “They have so much stuff! And it’s all so fancy!”  
  
Being a thane three times over across Skyrim and making a fortune graverobbing certainly did afford the siblings a comfortable lifestyle. Everything from the golden baubles on the shelves to the ornate swords hung on the wall spoke of equal parts  luxury and adventure. The basins of water by the bed stood on silver stands. Thrynn glanced into one, and flinched to see it was full of more flowers.  
  
Purple ones. Good for waking up in the morning, and a choice ingredient for the potions she used to make for him. She used to sample her potions as she made them, and when he kissed her, her lips would be bitter. Everyone else hated the flavor of those potions, but Thrynn savored that familiar taste on his tongue like a good-luck kiss before he started a dangerous job.  
  
This was her room. he knew it already, but only then did he really begin to imagine it. Her in this bed, dressing and undressing, splashing her face in that basin in the morning or washing in that tub at night, living and going about her business.   
  
His face felt hot, his throat tight.  
  
Good riddance. The last time a thought of her made him happy was almost two damn years ago. Tonight he would purge what was left of her hold on him.  
  
“Just start grabbing things that look expensive,” growled Thrynn.  
  
“Uh…” Sofie’s brows knit, concern clouding over her face. “Thrynn, are you…?”  
  
“Start with that shelf. I’ll go through the chest over here.”  
  
“Uhm, alright.”  
  
Someone crammed the chest to the very brim, so much so that personal affects tumbled out the instant Thrynn opened it. Clothes, lots of clothes, all quite plain and understated but made of quality fabrics fit for nobility, with soft lining and reinforced stitching. Zeno’s high standards showed on every article.  
  
But clothes, even nice ones,didn’t fetch high prices with fences. He closed the chest and moved on, and smiled wide when he came to the knapsack beside the bed. Just a brief glimpse inside did it: Septims tossed in haphazardly, a collection of random little treasures, lockpicks mixed in, and certainly only more valuable or useful goods below to be discovered when they had the leisure to dig through Zeno’s mess.  
  
A creak. the sigh of wind coming in from the outside. A soft thud of the door closing. Thrynn glanced to the floor, grimacing. A voice -- the housecarl -- said something, but then the sounds shuffled to the northern downstairs room. Directly beneath them.  
  
“Thrynn?” Sofie whispered.  
  
“They’re in the kitchen. We’re fine.”  
  
Thrynn knew to work quickly. The owner of the home presumably sat to supper right below them, and never would Vex instruct Thrynn to take his time with a home invasion. But Thrynn’s hands worked slower going through the items that he knew were hers. None of it looked important enough to steal. Nothing felt right to take. Where was something personal and expensive, something to sate his bitterness and make a worthy score?  
  
A couple old books, a spell book, some scrolls. They were a start, but would she mourn for them? Two years later, would she curse their absence?  
  
None of it was good enough.  
  
An amulet of Mara passed beneath his fingers, and that, oh, _that_ was remarkably easy to rip from the door and shove it in a pocket.  
  
Down below, a slam of the door shook the house. Underneath them, he could hear that voice, the voice that he hated so badly. With the accent of southern Cyrodiil worn away by years spent far from home, and a cadence that rang with too much diplomacy and wit to pass for sincere, directly below Thrynn was the man who stole Brina.  
  
“He wasn’t supposed to be here. He slammed the door. Maybe he’s angry?”  
  
“He’s always angry.” Had no reason to be; the world gave him whatever he wanted, and when it didn’t, he just took it by force. “Just ignore him. If we hear him coming up the stairs, we run.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
Thrynn went still again. Silence…  
  
Then voices. Inintelligible, low, gentle at first. Then louder. Then louder. Another loud banging noise, furniture, and a shout, this one quite clear, “No, it’s not alright! You lied to me!”  
  
Another shout came next, high-pitched and defiant, but he couldn’t make out the words. Or maybe he was just too distracted by the deepening pit of recognition in his stomach.  
  
“No!” Zeno’s voice again. “No, no! You can’t lie about drinking! You lied, and then you got drunk without me, and -- sorry, was waking up with the fucking _rose_ not enough to teach you a lesson? This is why we stay together! This is why we watch out for each other!”  
  
“Sanguine wasn’t there!” she cried.  
  
“Wasn’t he? Or are you saying that your behavior was entirely your own fault?”  
  
“Don’t tell me to seduce the jarl and then--”  
  
“I didn’t tell you to seduce him! You were just supposed to have dinner and refrain from murdering him! Make him think you like him, not drunkenly molest the man!”  
  
“I did not--!”  
  
“If you’re going to lie, and proceed to get drunk, and proceed to make advances on someone, you should at least acknowledge--”  
  
“Hypocrite!”  
  
“No! No, no, no! You’re the one who’s done this before Sister, not me! What did I say the last time you lied about drinking?”  
  
“Brother!”  
  
“No more for either of us! Calder, smash every bottle--”  
  
  
“No, what are you--?!”  
  
“--in the house. We’re dry until Little Sister here stops lying and sexually assaulting people.”  
  
“Brother! You don’t mean that!”  
  
Rapid succession, shatter after shatter sounded from down below.  
  
With the color drained from her skin, Sofie looked to Thrynn and winced with every crash. “They’re fighting! Do you think he’s going to hurt her?”  
  
“Never,” Thrynn said, admitting perhaps Zeno’s one redeeming quality. That man was a bastard, truly wretched, but he’d sooner die than harm Brina. In fact, the rage in his voice down below shook with something other than rage. Even after being reunited and made aware of their every flaw, the siblings truly did love each other unconditionally.  
  
But there was a new set of sounds, pounding footsteps that went to the back of the house, then got loud as they hit stairs.  
  
“Shit. Grab what you’ve got,” said Thrynn as he rushed to the child and helped her secure the loot to her small frame. He looped Zeno’s knapsack over her shoulders and hurried her to the window.  
  
“Go first!” she insisted. Her heels dug in and weight went backward to resist his prodding.  
  
But the steps were moving, fast, with determination.  
  
“I’m getting you out first. You’ll have to climb down, can you do it?”  
  
“Y-yes!” Not confident, but true.  
  
“Hurry-- fuck!”  
  
And she disappeared into the snowy night. He chose right to make her go first, because the moment he started to climb out, the door swung wide.  
  
Better he be the one caught than Sofie.  
  
And for one dreadful moment, they locked eyes. Zeno’s face was already burning, red hot like a brand, face twisted in anger and betrayal, but those black eyes popped wide to see the thief about to shimmy out the bedroom window.  
  
Thrynn wondered if he’d be better off just jumping.  
  
The Dragonborn swallowed thickly, muscles twitching with rage. Brina was still shouting downstairs; Zeno glanced over his shoulder, and back to Thrynn. “I don’t know which one of you to scream at first,” Zeno hissed, voice dangerously low. He glanced back and forth again. “Ugh! Stay here. You’re next. If you run, I’ll fucking find you.”  
  
Decision made, Zeno reeled back around and roared with the fury of a true dragon, “Sister, are you out of your damn mind?! What is the meaning of this?! Attacking Ulfric wasn’t enough, you just had to round out the evening with another tryst?!”  
  
If Zeno thought Thrynn would actually hang around for a scolding, one apparently for a very different crime than what he’d actually been there to commit, the Dragonborn was dead wrong. As soon as Zeno disappeared from the bedroom, Thrynn all but threw himself out the window.  
  
 _Good girl, Sofie._ Nowhere to be seen, footprints in the snow indicating a speedy retreat. He followed suit, running fast as his legs could carry him until he caught up to the child in the graveyard. He pulled most of the weight from her back, and together they fled the western end of the city for familiar ground in the Grey Quarter.  
  
The sun nearly rose by the time they burst through the door. Dear Sofie, who went back and forth three times to the Avenue of Valor in one night, collapsed in her chair the moment they sat to sift through their loot.  
  
Karliah and Kynvind emerged from the back, grim-faced, but at least the Nord’s demeanor brightened as soon as they began to empty the bags.  
  
“Thrynn, I’m impressed! Hardly any of this was Brina’s!”  
  
“She didn’t have anything worth taking,” Thrynn answered. “Luckily her brother has expensive taste to make it worthwhile.”  
  
“He was always the one you hated more, anyway.”  
  
“That’s not true.” At least, Thrynn cringed at the thought. It meant forgiving, or at least not being properly infuriated with, Brina. And in the grand scheme, she had been the one who betrayed him. “Anyway, I did as I said I would. A reminder that if you’re not with us, you’re against us.”  
  
Karliah’s lavender eyes went softer than Thrynn was used to. “Do you feel at ease now?”  
  
Thrynn slid a couple of Septims across the table and into the growing pile, but did not answer.  
  
Zeno’s knapsack indeed proved a worthwhile score. Coins, bits of jewelry and gemstones, useful things like lockpicks and trap probes, and the prizes just got more interesting the further into the pack they got. Sure, there were more half-eaten pastries and desserts than they’d expect in the Dragonborn’s backpack, and several bones that looked to be out of a human hand, but otherwise it was quite a score.  
  
Kynvind reached down further. She was laughing at something Hrolmir said, but the sweet chime of her voice cut out suddenly as she pulled out a large piece at the bottom of the pack. She opened her mouth to speak, but she had no words. She set it down in the middle of the table and, at a loss, shook her head.  
  
“What is that?” Hrolmir breathed, but he knew; they all knew. The thieves all leaned closer, faces contorting into various shades on the spectrum of confusion and surprise.  
  
They had seen the tapestries, the art, heard the stories, they recognized the artifact for what it was. But it didn’t make sense. They had ears in the Palace, and they knew the reports said that the mission had been failed. This was supposed to be lost-- to a tragic cave-in or to the Imperials.  
  
But pulled from the possessions of Zeno Valus, the Jagged Crown itself sat innocently on the theives’ table of the New Gnisis Cornerclub.And while every Bal Molagmer stared, shocked, only Karliah had the presence of mind to notice when the door to the club swung open.


	6. Human Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The New Gnisis Cornerclub is the new home of the Bal Molagmer, and where the Valuses finally reunite with their old friends in the Thieves Guild.

When the door shut, only Karliah had the presence of mind to look up. Her hand went to the dagger on her hip the same moment the intruder spoke.

“Listen, you have to--” Brina rushed in, voice urgent and clear, before she even got the chance to survey the room. Once she realized how many people all now looked at her, their expressions running the gamut from surprised to distraught, her bluster deflated. Even her hair seemed to lose some of its considerable volume as she shrunk away from the dozen eyes on her. “Oh. Oh, this is way more complicated than I’d been expecting. Uhm…” She craned her neck to catch eyes with the bartender who now mopped up the last wet ring on the counter from the cornerclub’s last legitimate customer of the night. “H-hello, Ambarys. Do you remember me? I’m Bri--”

“Nchow! What in Oblivion have you gotten yourself into, Stonecat?” Ambarys demanded. The thieves nodded at the question.

“Oh. You do remember--”

“Brina, what is this?!” Kynvind shrieked, and she tore the crown from Thrynn’s hands to wave it accusingly in Brina’s direction.

She floundered in place, still by the door, and for a moment her body shifted as if she was about to dart back out. Brina swallowed thickly after a beat. “Thrynn needs to hide. And that crown. And, ah, everything else of Brother’s, really. He’s coming, and he won’t have much trouble tracking--” She paused and glanced over her shoulder to the door. Thrynn knew how to pace his steps so that the prints could look like a natural gait, how to cut under awnings where traces would not be left in his wake, or otherwise leave trails to misdirect anyone following. Brina, not so much. “I’m fairly easy to find.”

“And how did you find us?” asked Karliah. Her hand remained poised on the dagger on her hip, long fingers wound, waiting, around the hilt.

“Clairvoyance spell.” Anyone who worked with her on a job knew her tricks included more than healing. Of course, said tricks were typically employed when in some control of her faculties, and a round of doubtful glances made their way around the assembled miscreants.

As if she could hear their thoughts, she slurred, “I’m amazed it worked, too. I can hardly walk in a straight line, and yet--”

“How much time do we have?” Kynvind asked. The Nord wasted no time sweeping her arm across the table to push the ill-gotten goods back into Zeno’s pack, though the sweets and half-eaten foods left a sticky smear across the table’s surface. She met Brina by the door in two long strides, shoving the pack into the woman’s hands. “Here! Just give it all back! Just say that the thief got away, but he left the stuff!”

But a thin hand caught the top of the pack and pulled it from Brina. Karliah’s lavender eyes flared. “This is a predicament we were not expecting, but we would do well to use it to our advantage. Zeno has been caught in a lie against those he swore fealty to.”

“Surprising absolutely no one,” Kynvind pointed out.

“Thrynn, you will not want to be here when he arrives. Take Brina to the back. The rest of us will talk to the Dragonborn directly. We will come to some kind of agreement.”

The Nightingale’s look left no room for discussion, but Thrynn held her stare for a long second anyway, _pleadingly_. Moving like he had weights strapped to every limb, Thrynn stood and took Brina by the hand. He looked back over his shoulder with every step, brows knit and lips carved deep into a frown.

This was definitely not the kind of closure he’d been planning to find tonight.

“What? No argument against us blackmailing your brother?” Thrynn asked when they moved past Ambarys’s bar and into the back room. Rather than lead her up the stairs, he pulled her aside to the dim, dusty storage space. Close enough to come out swinging if Zeno decided to take a less friendly approach to the situation.

Maybe she was just too drunk to care, Thrynn wondered, but Brina looked back at him through the darkness with surprising clarity in her black eyes. “No. He’d definitely do the same to anyone else, if he got the chance. Besides, what would Karliah extort from him that she wouldn’t use for good? Is she still Bal Molagmer?”

“You remember that?” It came out accusatory rather than impressed.

“Of course!” The spite in Thrynn’s voice didn’t touch her. “I enjoyed being a part of it. We did a lot of good. Are you still doing it?”

Thrynn had to look away before the sincerity in her eyes scalded him. “We all are. This whole bar, and everyone in it.”

“There were nearly a dozen people out there just now--”

“And they’re all with us.”

“Wow.” She was smiling. He heard it in the lilt in her voice, but he still refused to look. “See? And that’s why I don’t mind. You have a lot to gain by keeping it secret, right? And if it’s for the better, why should I stop it?”

“Because we’re about to blackmail Zeno.”

“You’re not wrong, though.”

Thrynn’s brows lowered. “So,” he said, afraid of the question even as it left his mouth, “that unyielding loyalty the two of you are so known for -- what about that?”

But even as Thrynn steeled himself for an answer he might not like, he couldn’t prepare himself for the sharp burn in his throat when she answered, “I would never just turn my back on Brother. So whatever you blackmail him for, I know I’m on the hook for it, too. And if it’s for the greater good, I can’t be upset.”

And before he could stop himself, Thrynn spat, “You strike me as the type to turn your back on anyone, actually.”

He dared himself to look at her again. And he looked, hard, taking in every detail like he hadn’t gotten the chance to do since the last time he lied awake with her in his arms, when he would savor her warmth and admire each freckle on her olive face. Nearly two years passed since he last gazed at her like this.

What was it he felt back then? Something like being bathed in cool shadow, safe and hidden to the world, all except her. Like the comfort of walking through Riften’s streets at midnight, silent and serene, knowing the way home by heart.

Nothing like the tightness he now felt, constricting his lungs, or the pound of his heart against his ribcage.

“Thrynn,” Brina said. Whispered, more like. Like she used to. Did she have that tone in her voice? Was it always so sad, and he only remembered them happier than they ever really were?

In the adjoining room, the door slammed. Kynvind spoke first, but Thrynn couldn’t make out her words. Not that he was listening nearly as closely as he should be.

“I never got the chance to come back. We have so much to do--”

“You went everywhere in Skyrim except _home_.”

“Brother wouldn’t have been welcome--”

“I don’t care about him. I was waiting for _you_.”

Her chest rose. “Was?” she breathed.

It was feeling less like plain heartache and more like Dirge punched him in the stomach with every passing second. Hard stabs of pain each word she spoke, dull aches of blooming bruises when she took in a new breath. “How long was I supposed to wait?”

Her thick brows knotted in the middle. It was the same face she made when she was trying to make an unconventional ingredient work for her potions. If she concentrated any harder, she’d start muttering to herself. He saw a lot of that face from his bed, watching her work while his muscles rested from the long hours spent in the training room.

Nearly two years, he reminded himself. How did he still remember every freckle?

Thrynn shut his eyes. Only a short while before then, Thrynn lived as a bandit. Life as a highwayman lost its appeal after his clan split, and the blood of his leader soaked his hands. The paint across his face used to be a reminder of Garthek and what he was. Then, somewhere along the way, he stopped imagining Garthek’s bleeding neck when Thrynn swiped the stripes of red ochre on his cheeks, and began instead to picture the stain of alchemical reagents on her fingertips.

Watching her brew potions while he reclined on his bed, watching her, came to mind easier than trying to recall the most formative, defining day of Thrynn’s life. At least, he used to think killing Garthek was his most important memory.

Surely it wasn’t looking down from the wall of Helgen at the freezing woman crawling down from the mountains, weighing whether to rob her or to save her.

“I didn’t think it was like that,” Brina said at last, and it tore Thrynn from his reverie like being plunged in icy water.

Trying to swallow the lump in his throat proved fruitless. “How long?” he insisted.

Brina looked away. Maybe she was biting her lip, maybe she was frowning; Thrynn couldn’t see, and he was thankful for it.

“I didn’t have a plan,” she said.

“You didn’t think about me.”

“No, I wasn’t. I was thinking about myself. Maybe for the first time in my life.”

“Yourself? You left with your brother!” Thrynn had to turn away from her now. His hands scratched at the itchy, short lower layer of his hair, just to give his hands something to do that wasn’t punching a barrel.

Her indignant response was expected, but not painless to hear. “You’re not going to make me regret it!”

“None of it? You don’t regret leaving me behind?” His fist clenched. He could punch right through the planks if he tried. “Replacing me with Ulfric?”

“Replacing --? Thrynn, I thought you’d be happy to be together again! I’m sorry I left suddenly, but you’re jumping to conclusions!”

His chest was going to explode. Just completely explode. All that they were going to find was a bloody shell made of his leathers. “You ran off without telling me, never came back, and next I see you, you’re with Ulfric! The conclusion wrote itself a long time ago!” He wanted to scream it, but managed to strangle the shout into a pained choke.

“What are you saying?”

Thrynn made himself look back at her. Her big eyes were on him, so wide that he could see the whites all around her black irises, shining bright in the dim light seeping through the cracks in the wall.

“I’m saying, I don’t know what I was expecting,” Thrynn growled. “Except to never see you again. Which would have been better.”

Her eyes somehow got bigger, and it made his heart contract and knocked the breath out of him.

“Thrynn, what do you mean?” So soft. Like she couldn’t get the words out. Thrynn knew the feeling. “Are you… Thrynn, are you saying you want to end this? Us? Are you… leaving me?”

Thrynn’s jaw dropped with such force that the joint popped. If he were any less baffled, perhaps he could have thought of a response. Instead, a low, whine-like wheeze left his lungs like he was slowly being crushed around the ribs by a giant.

~~~

Short even by Imperial standards, Zeno was a compact, if good-looking man. Dungeon delving no doubt came with a few advantages when he could slither easily through natural caverns and ancient halls alike with hardly a need to slouch. It also made him easy to lose in crowds, easy to hide behind small covers, easy to fit into the blind spot in a person’s peripheral. In red and black leathers, he could step into shadow as naturally as stepping through an open threshold.

But at times like these, when all eyes were on him, light shone across his unconcealed olive face, and there was no place to hide, he wore the spotlight well.

Straight white teeth shone contrasted attractively against his tawny complexion. The dusting of faint freckles brought attention to how high his cheekbones sat, and his black eyes sparkled with charisma and confidence crafted into the disarming smile he spent years perfecting.

His face sported a few new crinkles around the corners of his eyes. He smiled more these days, ever since he got his sister back. It only added to the harmless facade -- it helped him learn to bring his smile upward more convincingly when he faked it.

“On the defensive already?” Karliah asked. “You have only just arrived.”

“Just arrived to a bar full of people with hands on their knives,” Zeno said. He kept smiling, just a bit too perfectly sincere to be real. “I’m wounded, Karliah; you’ve got me outnumbered, and now you’re going to mock me? Not very friendly.” He glanced around the rabble and, unsatisfied, asked, “Have you seen my sister? She stumbled in a few minutes ago. Probably looking for Thrynn, with whom there’s been a serious mix up. You see, he robbed my house, and he took some of my things, when he was _supposed_ to get my dagger up through the bottom of his jaw. Say, he wouldn’t happen to be in here, too, would he?”

If he’d been planning on making more threats, the words died on his tongue when Kynvind lifted his bag from behind the table. “Ulfric won’t like the secrets you’ve been keeping from him. Between you and Brina, you must think you’ve got him cornered on all sides, right?”

Zeno rocked back on his heels. His smile fell, nose crinkling like something in the room suddenly smelt very sour. “Give me Sister and my pack. You know I can kill you all if I want to, and you’re making it really fucking tempting.”

“So does that mean you don’t want Ulfric to know about the crown?” Kynvind pressed on.

“I thought you didn’t take hostages, Kyn. Does that mean you’ve finally grown out of that righteous routine?”

Karliah took a step forward, and Zeno snapped his head her way and flicked Mehrune’s Razor from the sheath on his hip. But the Nightingale lifted her empty hands and, after a moment of considering whether he wanted to murder her or not, Zeno stood down.

“This gives us a valuable opportunity to work together.”

“And what would I get out of it?” sneered Zeno. “Besides the trouble of a knife in my back?”

“Is that price not fair?” Karliah persisted. “But you can consider our price doubled; because if you get caught for this treason, do not doubt that Brina will be forced to fall with you.”

“Bullshit. She’s smart and well-liked, she’d manage just fine. You’ll have to come up with something better than that.”

Karliah’s eyes narrowed. “Thalmor still want to capture you both. Do you think you’ll be safe for long with the Imperials? How long after you win the war for them until they kill you, or enslave you? How long before they destroy the legacy you’ve worked so hard for? You sided against the Imperials for one very particular reason. What Brina wrote in her journal, the prevention of a thing called Landfall. I am unconvinced that our leverage against you outweighs it.”

Zeno smiled. It was all teeth, pulled tight, grinding and fooling utterly no one. “Fuck all of you. Show me that Sister is alright and the crown is safe. Then tell me what you want.”

But Kynvind spoke first, before anyone could even move to fetch the younger Valus from the back room. “We want your help fixing the Grey Quarter. Letting Argonians and Khajiit into cities, protecting Dunmer and letting them be full citizens, allowing non-Nords to own property--”

“Are you fucking _kidding me_?” Zeno cried. His hands went up to knot in the curls of his hair. “Why the fuck didn’t you say that was your angle from the beginning? Shit, we’ve already been trying! What, did you really think you needed to blackmail me for that? You can all fuck off. Seriously. You had me all worked up like you wanted me to do something stupid, like rob the Palace of Kings or something. No shit! Sister’s been up in arms about all that since the day we signed up with the Stormcloaks. Fuck. Yes, of course we’ll help, you didn’t have to fucking _scare,_ me like that, _shit_. Can I have my Sister and my fucking stuff back now?”


	7. Garlic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hangovers are the worst, until something even more awful happens.

Sunlight gleaming through the window brought her back to reality with a sharp jab of pain through her eyelids. Rolling over was the greatest mistake of her life, and she curled in on herself and keened like a wounded animal, and still only managed to sound half as pathetic as she felt.

“Oh, shut up. You were a menace all night, and I’m not going to feel sorry for you now.” Brother’s voice rang cold as ever, somewhere in the room. “Now sit up. I made you tea. Are you going to be sick? I put a pot right beside the bed. Can you reach it? Let me help you up, be careful. Hush-shush, I’m right here, you’re alright!” Right, unsympathetic as ever.

“My head feels like it’s full of angry bees. I can’t open my eyes, it’s too bright.”

“Sit up, Sister, work with me.”

“The bees hate the light.”

“Hush-shush. The tea will help. It was the jar labeled ‘you’re not actually dying.’ That was the right one, right?”

“Yes.” She opened her eyes to slivers to accept the cup, and braced herself for the flavor. Hangover cures rarely tasted any good; she counted her lucky stars for her weak palate. Drinking it fast would be the only comfort.

The bed at her feet sunk under Brother’s weight. “Do you remember last night?”

She flinched her eyes back shut. The palace, she could clearly recall. Having a shockingly civil conversation with Ulfric, that was there, too. It made her feel, somehow, sicker to recall how genial she’d allowed herself to be with him. And then… Mouths. Her fingers in his fur mantle. Walking with him the whole way back home. Shattering glass, an argument with Brother about her drinking, somewhere in there.

“I think I might have kissed Ulfric.”

“Okay, good. I mean, _not good_ , you shouldn’t have done that, you were drunk, but _good_ that you remember something. Anything else?”

“I don’t know… I got home, though. Sam?” She slurped her tea loud enough so that she could feign not hearing the answer if she didn’t like it.

“As far as I know, not this time around. Thank every fucking Divine for that, you damn goose. You could have blown everything!” She started to fall back, but Brother caught her arm and held her upright. “You’re not going to make me feel sorry for you. You risked everything, and for what? Mead?”

“You say it like you don’t know the feeling--”

“Don’t be like that…” He went quiet, but his hand stayed firm around her forearm, holding her for many moments. “Do you remember anything else? The thieves?”

Her eyes shot wide open, and immediately clenched shut with a wail. Tea splashed on the blankets from the sudden jolt. “Thieves? We were robbed?”

“That, too. Thieves guild. Here in town. We got to reunite with our exes. They weren’t thrilled, but things seemed to work out. We’re going to try and help them out with the Stormcloaks, so--”

Brina finally forced her eyes on her brother beside her. “Our exes in the Thieves Guild? You mean-- do you mean Karliah? And-- and _Thrynn_?”

“Ouch. That was the part I was hoping you _would_ remember, because I don’t want to have to be the one to tell you.” Now that she was looking at him, he didn’t exactly look like he’d had a run-in with a dark part of his past last night. Things between him and Karliah were turbulent and brief, and never haunted him much. As soon as Karliah saw him for what he was, the relationship came to a halt.

With a groan, she curled back down beneath the covers and dropped the empty teacup beside her. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen him! Why, why did our reunion have to be when I was drunk? Don't tell me I made a fool of myself.” The blanket tucked around her and she clutched it close from within her cocoon.

Zeno coughed. He kicked his feet onto the bed to get more comfortable with Brina, scooting nearer to her and wrapping an arm over her. He had no intention of leaving Hjerim today, as evidenced by his plain clothes with no inky black Dark Brotherhood armor worn beneath. His curls hung messily over his face, ungroomed. He must have prepared that tea first thing on waking. “...As a matter of fact… Well, if you ask me, you both made fools of yourselves. Thrynn tried to rob us. I caught him. We chased him to their hideout, which is New Gnisis-- Ambarys says hello, he helped me carry you home-- and while I was forming an alliance with Karliah, you and Thrynn had it out a bit.”

Another groan, longer, less frustration and more despair. “How badly?”

“Fairly certain he broke up with you. Not that it matters, you jilted him, like, two years ago, so--”

“He _what?!_ ” The shock had her eyes open once more. Between remembering her ill-advised kiss, this sudden development, and the daylight that felt like an icepick in her brain, it was all she could do to roll and lean over the side of the bed.

Zeno held her hair back as she emptied her stomach, all acid.

“I can’t believe--” Brina sputtered over the pot he’d miraculously placed just right, “--he would just break up with me… while I was drunk and couldn’t even remember!”

“Sister, you definitely abandoned him. In no uncertain terms. I thought you were through with him.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Ridiculous… Alright, hold on, let me get you some water and… what else should I get you?” He rolled off the bed from the other side, soundless as anyone would expect from the Listener

“Garlic. For now. I’ll mix up something stronger when I can stand.”

“Eugh. You’re the expert, I suppose.” She couldn't hear his silent footsteps, but she knew the way he moved. When he spoke again, his voice was in the hall, right where Brina's knowledge of his gait and speed placed him. “When you’re feeling up to it, we need to talk. I got a letter from an old acquaintance. I want you to be able to read it in full before I burn it.”

Far from the most suspicious thing he’d ever said to her. “Right… Just bring that garlic and some water, and in a few minutes, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Brina scowled down at the pot for a long time. The thing was too fancy for its function - living with Zeno meant periods of distinct feast and famine. Crawling through underground tunnels, eating rations of dried foods and sleeping on the ground, alternating with luxurious living conditions courtesy of their unchecked grave robbing. Zeno himself made a fortune collecting on Dark Brotherhood contracts, which only served to make their homes all the more ironic being bright and beautiful right where everyone could see.

It felt most ironic here and in Solitude. The mansions Zeno kept, complete with servants, always served as a stark reminder that her life would never be the same.They’d changed from being children on a muddy farm. Brina had always been studious and awkward with people,and Zeno had always been a troublemaker, but now, those two little brats had grown into…

 _Caricatures_ , Brina thought with a flinch. Zeno was a madman with too much power, and she was an alchemical genius who couldn’t even keep a single relationship alive. And here they were, living in a mansion, vomiting into pots that would have been worth more than the whole farm Brina went all over Tamriel to try and save.

For what? For Mundus? To stop the Thalmor? Was that why she was stupid enough to smile and make nice with a man who objectively deserved an axe on his head as much as a crown? She couldn’t be troubled to preserve the relationships that did matter to her, but instead she would speak kindly, even _sweetly_ to a man she hated!

It didn’t sit right. The thought of the Thalmor bringing down another Tower, _Brother's_ Tower, made Brina shiver under the blankets. But what was the cost of Ulfric winning instead? Could any amount of manipulation and negotiation really change a man who didn’t have the best interest of everyone at heart? And would his legacy after him be similarly blind to the needs of others? Would his counselors and advisors, generals and thanes, all be likeminded to Ulfric? Could Brina and Zeno alone be enough to change the tide?

And -- how long was it taking Zeno to get a cup of water? The view of the embellished chamber pot no longer enthralling enough to satisfy her, Brina rolled over with a low groan. “Bro- _ther?!_ ”

And then… silence. Like no one was in the house.

The door swung open, so slow Brina began to expect a spectre looming on the other side.

Calder stood at there, dressed for a casual day at home, a cup in hand. His weight shifted once, twice, three times before he rasped, “Forgive me. Had to dig in the pantry for the medicine.”

Brina sat upright if for no other reason than for Calder to get a full view of her knit brows and pursed lips. “I didn’t ask for--”

He moved in quickly from the doorway. Everything felt off. Unnatural, not like a man in his own home, walking toward the woman he lived with and knew well. He thrust the cup toward her, but his knuckles were white, grip unrelenting. When she reached for it, he did not release it.

“Calder?” She leaned forward. “Why didn’t Brother bring it up?”

It took too long for him to choke out, “He’s busy.”

If there were anything these proud Nord-types were not, it was actors.

“Calder. What medicine did Brother ask you to bring me? I didn’t ask for medicine.”

She could have heard the painful gulp of that lump in his throat from across Windhelm. He bent in to meet her, mouth tight. Even inches away, she could scarcely make sense of his hurried whispers. “They told me to give it to you. I’m certain it’s poison, but they would have just killed me if I said no. Then there’d be no one protecting you.”

“Who?” Brina breathed.

“Elves.”

Of course. Her nightmares of Thalmor hunting her were never meant to have gone away. Maybe it was her rising terror, but she swore she saw someone move at the doorway. She didn’t dare look. “Calder… I’m about to ask something terrible of you.”

“As you command.” His eyes were pure Nord steel, resolute and loyal. She noticed a bead of blood on his neck, no doubt fresh from a wickedly sharp blade.

“Jump out the window with me.”

Experience taught her that the fall from the second-story window to the snowy ground was not only survivable, but absolutely the most expedient escape route when being pursued inside of Hjerim. And, bless Calder, he obeyed as instantly and as fearlessly as she could have asked for!

In the span of a heartbeat, he tossed the cup away and grabbed Brina from the bed - she’d intended to get up herself, but this was undeniably faster - yanking her up in a flurry of blankets and spinning around in the same motion. A shout came from the doorway, then another, but it was all too late. In two long strides, Calder was shattering his shoulder through the stained glass and pulling her along with him.

Maybe, if her heart weren’t pounding and mind screaming for answers, she could appreciate that the view falling from this window looked just as it had the first time. Maybe, if she weren’t terrified for her brother or livid at the Thalmor invading her home, she could enjoy the little victory of evading them when they must’ve thought her cornered and vulnerable.

Calder was better at sticking a landing than she was. He hissed at the pain, took a knee for only a second, and then was standing, running, carrying Brina along with him tight against his chest. 

“Wait, Brother!” she said.

“They carried him out of the house. I don’t know how they snuck up, and there were so many-- They were quick about it. I think they meant to flee the city.”

She looked over his shoulder for signs of black-hooded figures coming after them. No, they’d know better than that. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit! You’re telling me that they have my brother?!”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I don’t know how they got inside--”

“They have my brother?!”

“Ye--”

“Damn it! No, no, put me down, I’ll find him myself! Go to Ulfric, tell him to send everyone he can to help me!”

Calder only held her tighter. “There are too many of them. They wanted both of you, I cannot let you give them what they wanted.”

“I can take all of them! I will, let me go! Where are the guards?!” Smoke and screams rising in the market answered the question for her, but with the horror now fully consuming her, she couldn’t make sense of it.

“You’ll be killed--!” Calder’s words stopped as immediately as his feet. They slid on the icy ground and skidded to a stop just before impacting with--

The sight of him made Brina’s blood boil until her skin felt like it would melt the snow as it fell. Two heads taller than her standing height, with a frame that stretched long and more slender than a Nord, he wore a fine traveling cloak of a thick and sturdy weave with just enough dirt of the bottom hem to prove its wear. Under the drawn hood of the cloak, she could see spectacular golden skin and cheekbones that rose too high for human features. He didn’t dare wear Thalmor colors in Windhelm, but his remarkable timing and the avian design in the hilt of the mace on his hip gave Brina all the reason she needed to start a fire spell between her palms.

“There you are! You shouldn’t have come this way, it's the most obvious route!” he said. “Stop that, don’t make a scene! You need to hide! Come with me!”

“You’re Thalmor!” Brina accused. Was it an accusation, as far as they were concerned? She hoped she’d filled the word with enough venom that he’d know just how she meant it.

“Yes-- rather, probably not, after this. My name is Ondolemar. And I count Zeno Valus as perhaps my only friend.”

~~

The Arentino residence sat silent. The dust on the floors hadn’t stirred in a long time, so it hung in low clouds when their feet kicked it up again.

In a small room, tucked away in a corner where blood still spattered and stained the wood, one of Zeno’s fallback caches waited unobtrusively. Unlike most of his emergency spots, there was no lock on the box, and for some reason Brina wouldn’t dare ponder, among the extra sets of clothes was an outfit small enough for a human child or very small Bosmer. She played with the idea of changing into the frock left for her, but instead resolved herself to wrapping the blanket over his shoulders - turning her back on a Thalmor Justiciar would be foolish to begin with, she certainly wouldn’t dress in front of him.

“Alright,” Calder grumbled. He stayed further back to keep a better view on the door, but he inched forward in unconscious steps, his deep-set eyes never leaving Ondolemar. “Explain yourself.”

Brina nodded Ondolemar to a chair. He gave it a once-over and a sneer, and stayed standing where he was.

“I was alerted that one of my subordinates intended to pursue you both. I’d meant to stop her, or to order her into some other mission, but she has never been above seeking permission from elsewhere when my answers did not please her. Within days, she’d received full approval from Elenwen and assembled enough Justiciars to follow through,” Ondolemar explained. He looked down his nose at Brina, a long distance indeed. “I wrote to your brother to warn him, but quickly remembered how his general attitude towards a challenge might undermine my intentions. So I came myself. I rather impressed myself, with the speed I took, but it would seem my timing was just short of what Zenotha managed.”

“Zenotha?” Brina said. Since Ondolemar wasn’t taking the chair, she brushed some of the accumulated cobwebs off of it, shook them from her hand, and sat sideways on the seat. She adjusted her blanket to better cover her bedclothes, and drew them in tighter. “That sounds familiar.”

“She was formerly assigned to a partnership with a scholar by the name of Lovicano. I do believe Lovicano came to a rather gruesome end in Whiterun two years ago.”

Brina sat silently whilst the names settled into her bones. For one unbearable minute, she was laying on the ground in the bailey of an old fort that’d been taken by bandits, a crazed Altmer speaking in riddles and casting his shadow across her, and the threat of Zenotha and her agents scouting for her just outside the stone walls. She heard Lovicano’s promise in her ear, that there was more to gain by letting her live, to see where the pieces would fall, and his certainty that Mundus would crumble no matter what. Brina had gone into hiding after that. Alone, for months, without even Cicero or Olev beside her. She ran away from her little shack in the Rift. She left the College of Winterhold. She spent so long, preparing herself to die alone. That was all supposed to be different now. By the Eight and Talos, that was supposed to be in the past! “She’s still chasing me? After all this time?”

“Your role in preserving Talos worship is well known to the Thalmor,” Ondolemar explained. His face had a way of only expressing emotion in minute variations of the same sneer, and Brina only bothered trying to decipher it for a moment before shaking her head.

“Brother and I are strong in our convictions,” Brina admitted at a length.

“Your brother thinks himself Shezarrine,” Ondolemar said.

Brina choked on the dust in the air. “How do you--?”

“And I believe him,” Ondolemar continued. “Talos is not the only example of a Divine who has mantled to an existing godhood, and not the only example of an oversoul. I know theology, Valus. Between the two of you, there is truly a reason for the Thalmor to fear for the success of their mission in destroying the Stone of Talos worship and deactivating the Tower. But if I am forced to choose my priorities, the Thalmor to whom I’ve devoted my life, and my only friend?”

“I find it hard to believe my brother ever counted a Thalmor as his friend.”

He shrugged his dismissal. “Regardless, Altmer live very long lives, and I am nothing short of a perfect specimen. I am confident that I can find a perfectly successful career elsewhere, perhaps even for an order which does not isolate me in a city like Makarth despite my every protest.”

“So why are we here and not helping my brother?” Brina snapped. “You’re a Thalmor, you’ve got me alone, separated from my brother, and I’m supposed to think that makes you trustworthy? Is this a distraction?”

“No, the fire in the market this morning was the distraction. The guards went rushing in, there was no one to immediately intervene should the situation in Hjerim escalate. They were able to abduct Zeno and remove him from the city, and even I am shocked at how swiftly they managed it. And you alone, or even the both of us and your dog,” he waved a hand in Calder’s direction, “would not be enough to match them. I do not think it bodes well, how effortlessly they captured him. Already, there are a formidable number of them, but surely their remarkable success in taking Zeno speaks to something more nefarious than cunning alone. However, I know where they will take him, and I know how to get there. He will not be killed _quite_ upon arrival, but we must move quickly.”

Brina shifted on her seat. She wouldn’t take her eyes from Ondolemar’s sharp face, though she saw Calder over his shoulder, looking as if he had a million things to say. “I don’t trust you.”

“Just as you should not trust Ulfric Stormcloak, or even Zeno himself. But the ends always justify the means for you when all is said and done, don’t they, Miss Valus?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to the wonderful [Lena](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lena_TheProfessionalStudent/pseuds/Lena_TheProfessionalStudent), who offered to beta read and indulged my need to ramble about my OCs~~ Thank you~!!
> 
> Also, ahhahahaaa, sorry about the long delays between postings. I'm the worst, I know.


	8. Nordic Barnacle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan comes together, with a drawback or two.

Everyone in the Palace of Kings knew Calder. Minor nobility possessing a notable finesse with even the most unwieldy axes, he turned down a chance to fight in the war in preference of an only-somewhat quieter life as a housecarl. Not much about the man indicated his ultimate desire for a domestic environment on first glance, but after a lifetime of helping in the kitchens and teaching fellow warriors how to sew the tears in their gambesons, his final decision came as very little surprise to his superiors and peers alike. If he coveted more power than that, to become a thane himself one day, he never expressed it in anything more than half-hearted hypotheticals.

Jorleif noticed Calder first after a casual glance toward the door prompted a quick double-take. None would ever call him craven. A simple man, desiring no more action than the role of a butler-bodyguard typically entailed, but not a coward. To see Calder stumbling into the palace, pale as the snow and shaking, immediately drew attention from everyone else around as well.

The low buzz of a dozen conversations, a dozen important debates and discussions among the many moving parts of the Stormcloak rebellion, all died at once. Beside where Ulfric sat on his throne, Galmar started toward Calder with a hand on his axe.

“Calder, you look ill,” Jorleif said. “What has happened?”

The same instant, and already halfway across the room, Galmar demanded, “What has Zeno done?” None bothered to correct him for jumping to conclusions; the assembled Nords around the room shared an uncomfortable glance as the grim possibilities sunk in.

Calder glanced nervously, looking at the corners of the room where no one stood, before taking only a few steps toward the dais. His booming voice wavered in pitch as he said, “Jarl Ulfric, you are needed. Please, come with me.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Ulfric stood, but made no move to step down from his throne.

“Please, my lord, I must not say more. You’re needed.”

His frown carved new lines into his face for only a moment. Then, any derision or distrust disappeared under a practiced mask of stoicism and strength, jaw set, eyes cold as the land he claimed rights to. “Galmar, Stormblade, with me.”

~~

Thank goodness for Brother’s secret fall-backs. While Calder went for the jarl, Brina dug through the stash of extra clothes and supplies. Tucked in the corner of the blood-stained room, the chest had everything they'd need in an emergency such as this.

In the main room, Ondolemar paced with an incessant tap-tap-tapping of hard-soled boots. “So, you deign to get dressed for Ulfric, but my company was not enough to inspire that most basic of courtesies? This alliance is off to a grim start, indeed.”

“Are you teasing me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Well, if nothing else, you have the sass to be friends with my brother.” She wiggled into the dress from the cache, but continued digging through the chest once covered. “I swore he said he left it in this one… Ugh.”

“Ulfric may be the wrong party to reach out to,” Ondolemar said, and not for the first time since Calder left. “What could you ask of him that would be of use to us?”

“Supplies? Soldiers? What, were you planning on just walking to the embassy with nothing but the clothes on our backs, all alone? Besides, it's going to look bad if both Brother and I disappear without a word.”

“Marching soldiers will slow us down and time is precious. The fewer of us go, the more swiftly we can travel.”

“How quickly do we need to go?”

“Zenotha and her accomplices made it from Markarth to Windhelm in ten days.”

The chest slammed shut and, in three long strides, Brina was toppling out of the room to Ondolemar. She wanted him to see the incredulousness on her face. “Ten days? To get here from _Markarth_? That’s impossible!”

“Certainly a feat, yes. I think it likely that Zenotha used some kind of trick to keep her and her party’s stamina up. If she was relying on potions, she may have run out, or reaching the end of her finite supply. If she managed that itinerary with enchantments, however…”

“Then she can pull that off for the return trip, too,” Brina finished, her voice going low. “Damn it! But we can’t just go walking up to the embassy. Didn’t my brother attack it once before? A long time ago? How did he do it?”

Ondolemar shrugged. In the dim light of the cold house, he looked more like a court mage than a Justiciar. His cloak and clothing fell over his form in finely-tailored lines, but sported no decoration that could reveal his affiliations. And with his hood back to show off a perfectly shaved head, Brina was reminded of some of the old wizards at the College of Winterhold who’d forgone hair completely. It was as likely to catch fire from their spells as anything else. “A very different scenario, but yes, Zeno did once attack the Thalmor Embassy. During a social gathering, while our lady ambassador was occupied and distracted, he broke into the embassy and stole several important dossiers and records. He managed it all with incredible stealth; no one even knew he was there at all, except for myself and supposedly one other ally, whom I never did learn the identity of. Well, and the few agents he did bump into, all of whom were disposed of quickly and brutally before they could sound the alarm. But that is neither here nor there. The burglar approach will not work so well for us, since we intend to retrieve an entire person rather than a few pages of parchment.”

“So, if anything, we need to assemble a small but formidable team, and be ready to head out as soon as possible.” Brina paced across the room, frowning behind her at the trails she left in the dust. “Main roads will be difficult, with Thalmor patrols to the west.”

“I’m confident that my presence can dissuade agents on the road from giving us too much trouble.”

“Even if you’re traveling alone with a small contingent of fully armed Stormcloaks?”

“When you put it that way, we may need to refine our tactics more precisely as we go...”

Brina swallowed hard and held up a clasped hand. A slender chain slipped between her fingers, the trinket she’d continued digging through the stash for held tight in her palm. “I will convince Ulfric to help us by whatever means necessary, whatever strong soldiers he can provide us and whatever supplies he can finance. Hopefully I can get him to help by virtue of saving the hero of his rebellion. But if not, I’ll sink as low as I have to.”

“Do what you must,” Ondolemar said. “I doubt any sacrifice you could make would amount to my own. I’ve spent decades -- _a century_ building my career.” She placed the item on the table, and even Ondolemar could not disguise a new level of disgust. “Well. This isn’t a competition.”

She slipped into the nearest chair, bent double, and balanced her chin on the edge of the table. “It is a huge sacrifice. Especially since you do believe Altmer are superior. Despite being friends with my brother, you really do want everyone else to be extinguished, don’t you?”

“It is easy to over-simplify the Thalmor agenda, especially since so few are truly informed of all it encompasses. Regardless, I have made a very definitive choice in hiding you from Zenotha, and helping you to rescue Zeno.”

“I hate that their names are so similar, it’s going to get me tripped up one of these days-- Wait!” She struck her hands against the table. “I have an idea! How to get to Haafingar faster than them!”

A sound at the door made her jump. Two knocks, just like Calder promised.

Well, it put everything into a certain perspective, knowing who he’d hopefully returned with. Allying with a mer who hates man, asking for assistance from a man who hates mer, did she expect a smooth conversation or a murder scene? She took her trinket from the table and tucked it into a pocket on her dress, and gave Ondolemar a meaningful look. One which hopefully said, _Don’t mess this up._

As if she weren’t just as likely to do that herself.

The door opened, what sounded like a dozen pairs of feet shuffled in, and the door closed. From the main room, it seemed like Ulfric may have brought his entire court with him. The only thing that made Brina relax was the pounding of iron and clang of armor, the warsong of Nord warriors. No Thalmor would make such a racket.

“Miss Valus?”

“Yes, Calder. Up here with our guest.”

Calder led Ulfric and two others up. They sounded like more, with their heavy armor and armaments, but Brina relaxed to recognize Eha and Galmar. They, at least, might be favorable to saving Brother, especially from the Thalmor.

Except that all three of them regarded Brina only for a moment before locking their attention onto the suspiciously present Altmer standing a few feet from her. He didn’t have to wear the black and gold robes for his company to raise flags in every shade of red.

“What is the meaning of this, Spirit?” Ulfric said. He was gruffer than usual. So, her kiss last night hadn’t warmed him up any. Even if it had, he went cold all over again just at the sight of an elf. “Your housecarl refused to say what this was about. The Aretino residence is not an open forum.”

Brina stood respectfully, leaning slightly to force herself into the scope of Ulfric’s burning glower. “My home, Hjerim, has been infiltrated. This morning, while the guard saw to a fire started in the market, my brother was kidnapped by Thalmor.”

It took longer than she’d expected to explain the situation. They had more questions than she planned to answer, about every detail from the sounds she’d heard, how many minutes brother had been gone before she realized something was amiss, if she saw anything the night before, if she noticed anything leading up to the assault, what poison was put in her drink -- the list went on, until one glaring question remained.

“And what is he doing here?” Eha asked. But her bitter blue eyes watched Ondolemar with more disbelief than curiosity, glowing with the light of recognition.

“Eha, please. I know you’re from Markarth, so you must’ve seen-- and I know what happened to -- to your father,” Brina stuttered.

Eha Kalju spat on the floor, her lip curled with an absolute fury that Brina had seen only once before on Olev’s face. Nothing brought out their family resemblance like anger. “If the Thalmor kidnapped your brother, then what is their Justiciar doing here?” she demanded.

“Justiciar?” Ulfric said, though he sounded less surprised and more as though he’d been waiting for confirmation. And just like that, the sword on his hip was drawn.

“Not anymore, I assure you,” Ondolemar said. “Nothing will so thoroughly end my employment as this. I’m going to help Brina rescue Zeno.”

“So this is where you’ve met your moral limit, elf? You’d kill priests, innocent men and women, but let’s not kidnap a man as famously a villain as he is a hero!” Eha took a step forward and reached for her own sword as well, and while none of the fellow Stormcloaks around her moved to stop her, it was Brina who stepped between them. “You will answer for your sins!”

A barrier spell sprung from the Spirit’s hand with a nervous squeak. “Can he answer for them _after_ we’ve rescued my brother?! He may be our only way!”

“And why is that?” Galmar growled. Surely, by the way he bared his teeth, he was just waiting for a reason to set his axe swinging.

Brina explained as quickly as she could, holding the barrier between them all the while: he knew where her brother was taken, how to get there, and presumably how to get in. He’d be the one to find her brother in the building. “And besides all that,” she finally finished, “he’s a mage, and as good a mage as we’ll find. As a Thalmor Justiciar, you all should know, his aren’t skills to scoff at, and as long as they’ve been offered to me, I intend to make use of them.”

“She is a woman of ends and means,” Ondolemar purred.

Ulfric stood, his sword still in his hand, eyes going between Brina and Ondolemar as his grip adjusted slightly. Maybe he was considering how best to chop through the barrier to get at Ondolemar. Maybe he was deciding whether to sheath his sword, walk out, and never speak to Brina again. “So, you intend to break into the embassy and take Zeno back. Why call on me? A courtesy, to tell me you’re defecting from the Stormcloaks to do so?”

“No, no, I--” Brina squawked. She dropped the barrier so that her black eyes could look directly into his. When she took a step closer, her neck craned to keep eye contact. “I need help. Any help you can give. I don’t intend to forsake the Stormcloaks, I just -- this is a rescue mission! I want to rescue your _best soldier_ , and I’m asking for assistance. Whatever you can offer. Please. For my brother and me, please!”

At last, Ulfric did sheath his sword, never taking his gaze off Brina as he did so. “You expect me to give you and your Thalmor friend everything you need for a safe, fast journey to Haafingar, the seat of the Imperials, where your former-legionnaire brother was taken. And there are no signs of a struggle, no signs of a break-in, no signs that he didn’t intend to go with them in the first place--”

“Jarl Ulfric, they stormed us quickly,” Calder interjected. “Zeno was knocked out before we even knew they were there. I promise you, I wouldn’t lie--”

“And perhaps Zeno was playing dead. Convenient that he was taken so quickly, so easily, isn’t it? Do you know what they asked you to poison her with? Perhaps it was nothing, all just a ploy.”

“This isn’t a ploy!” Brina cried out. Her voice broke halfway through. Her olive face flushed red with indignation and horror. “My brother was taken, they’re going to kill him! Please, just believe me!”

Ulfric made a show of looking down on her. “And how should I trust you on your word, Imperial?”

This was why Zeno had concocted his stupid plan. This was what he meant. The Stormcloaks needed a reason to believe they had the Valuses under their thumbs. They needed a reason to believe they had power and influence over them, they needed to believe they held something, anything, over their heads. And the Valuses needed an angle they could play at, a theme to their machinations that would give their attempts at manipulation a believable foundation.

“Because, I love you.” A lie if she’d ever told one, now more than ever, but the desperation on her face was genuine. Brina reached into the pocket of her dress and held up the amulet of Mara stashed in the chest of the Aretino fallback. “Because, if you help me, I’ll marry you. That’s as definitive and solid as alliances get, isn’t it? You’ll know, absolutely, that I won’t betray the Stormcloaks, and neither will my brother. We’ll… we’ll be family. You’ll be able to trust us forever, in this, and in everything else. And I won’t defect against my name.”

No chance of them turning sides halfway through, no possibility of them turning on him after the war was fought and finished. This was it, the ultimate alliance.

Ulfric watched Brina, his mouth set, sizing up the offer, calculating. Finally, he said, “It would be an honor to marry the Spirit of the Rift. Very well. Tell me exactly what you require for your mission.”

Her stomach twisted a new kind of knot. She swallowed down the swell of enraged bile rising in her throat. To go to such a length, just not to be a traitor…! Brina sucked in a breath, held it for a moment, and licked her lips. She could get angry later; now, she needed focus.

“I have an idea of how we might get to Haafingar faster than Zenotha can return. Ondolemar, you don’t think they would have fled back by boat, do you?” Brina suggested. 

Ondolemar scoffed outright. “In the frozen water, where there are as many shipwrecks as there are icebergs? The only Thalmor stupid enough to attempt it are already stationed in Solstheim.”

“So, we go by boat.” In spite of herself, her face began split into a smile at her own plan. “We don’t need to worry about being spotted in the coastal cities, because we’re Stormcloaks. And we can surely find a vessel that can navigate those waters, small enough that it won’t get caught on every bit of ice and big enough to carry us. And we’ll make even better time than they could on land, no matter how fast they go.”

“A Stormcloak ship would be recognized immediately once you get past the Pale,” Galmar pointed out. He crossed his arms. “And commissioning a private vessel would work, to a point, but would invite pirates, and would still be approached by authorities if you try and dock anywhere near Solitude. Their port is tightly controlled by the Imperials.”

Brina nodded. The amulet in her hand felt less heavy when she wasn’t thinking about it. “I think I have a way around that. We use a smuggling boat.”

If Ulfric’s brow got any lower, it would eclipse his eyes. “And how do you plan to secure a smuggling boat?”

“I have a friend who might be able to help with that. We probably won’t be able to fit many people. But I think between Ondolemar and I, and some of your best soldiers--”

“ _One_ of my best soldiers,” Ulfric interrupted. “Stormblade. I will task you with protecting my bride-to-be. But as long as we want to avoid the Thalmor learning of your plan, the fewer people who know of this operation, the better, and I won’t have any more of my people than absolutely necessary put their lives at risk. The Thalmor are as wicked, as evil, as truly horrible as any foe you may ever face, and I will not have blood on my hands should any more Stormcloaks be captured.”

Ouch. When he put it like that, Brina couldn’t think of an argument that would hold water. She ducked her head - half because she couldn’t bear to look Ulfric in the eye another second. “Eha… I entrust you with mine, and my brother’s, life.”

And Eha, unimpressed, glanced between Brina and Ondolemar before snorting, “Aye, Spirit.”

~~

“Alright,” Brina said, drawing the cowl of her cloak low. There didn’t seem to be any Thalmor still lurking about, but far be it from her to get too comfortable on assumption alone. “Ulfric is offering a lot less help than we’d like, but Eha being assigned as my bodyguard is nothing to turn our noses up to. And we’ll get food and supplies for the trip, so that’s good.”

Though she couldn’t see him, towering so high beside her, she could just _feel_ Ondolemar’s eyes rolling. “A single Stormcloak soldier and a few days of rations is an underwhelming brideprice.”

“Beggars and choosers, Justiciar. Besides, I had to ensure our loyalty.”

“Be that as it may, let’s hope that these other friends of yours will be more helpful.” He glanced around the Grey Quarter, brow knitting at the old and tattered banners hanging from the buildings.

The New Gnisis Cornerclub. She’d visited only just last night, but in her drunkenness, remembered none of it. When she walked in, it felt like the first time in years.

“Um, hello, Ambarys,” Brina said. She pulled the hood down from her face to flash a sheepish smile at the proprietor behind the bar. When he said nothing, she continued, “Sorry about last night. I hear my brother and I caused a bit of a scene. But… I need help. Is there… someone from Riften I could talk to?” Until she knew how delicate to be when talking about the guild out loud, she would err on the side of caution.

Something moved beside the door, startling Brina a foot into the air.

“Hello, Brina!” She was the little Nord child Brina sometimes spotted selling flowers around town. Brina often bought those flowers, when she happened upon her. “Everyone who’s still here is upstairs. You can follow me.”

Glancing to her Altmer companion, she moved past the bar and tried not to read too deeply into the puckered look on Ambarys’s face, like he had something too sour in his mouth.

The upstairs room where Brina spent a few nights sleeping on the floor once upon a time had been reworked into a more dedicated storage space, including some suspiciously unmarked crates and chests. Sofie led Brina past that, to the small hall at the front of the building. Most of the room was dominated by the stairwell to Ambarys and Malthyr’s living quarters, but now in every available bit of space, there were bedrolls. Hardly a glamorous way to live, but the guild in Riften had seen worse conditions. A small platform had been constructed on the underside of the stairs, about halfway up, and that was filled with bedding like a massive bunk bed.

Though it was past noon, it looked like about half the beds were still filled with sleeping thieves. Occupants of the other beds were, Brina figured, out and about, picking pockets or casing houses. It was different from the cistern, but the feel of the place brought back a wave of nostalgia she hadn’t anticipated.

On the platform, Kynvind and Karliah reclined side-by-side. They’d been whispering, but both stopped when the sound of three pairs of footsteps reached them. Brina wondered just how well they all worked together, how tightly knit this chapter of the guild had become that they could recognize each other by the weight and rhythm of their steps.

That sort of closeness and camaraderie must be nice, she thought.

Karliah sat up, directed a frown at Sofie and then gave a short nod, pointing back the way they’d come.

They waited in the little storage room for a few minutes. Karliah could throw her whole kit on within seconds and be on the run and out of sight in less than a minute, so the only reason they’d be kept waiting was if she was moving slowly on purpose. Brina held her breath and strained her ears for whispers, to try and discern what they were deciding before meeting with her, but she only could catch the mutterings of Ondolemar as he side-eyed the stacks of illicit merchandise.

Kynvind and Karliah came out of the bunks together. They were too confused to look particularly stern or angry. And, knowing what she did about the events of the night before, Brina could understand; they had no clue what she might be here about or how they should feel about it.

“Stone-Cat,” Kynvind greeted. Tense. She wanted to be happy to see her, wanted to be hopeful about what frequent and consistent visits from the Spirit could mean, but optimism like that had burned them all before. “How do you feel?”

“Feels like my head’s splitting down the middle. And if it did, it still wouldn’t be the worst news today,” she answered. One deep breath. “Brother was kidnapped, I need to borrow a smuggling ship.”

Whatever business they thought she was there for, this wasn’t it.

“I’m sorry, _what?_ ” Kynvind asked the very same time Karliah said, “I don’t follow.”

“Uh-- we need to get to Haafingar as quickly as we can. We don’t know how long exactly they’ll keep Brother alive, and he’s probably not going to give them very many reasons to be merciful. With their head start, and the pace they had in getting here, it’s unlikely we could catch up by foot, and even then, they’d have advantage in numbers. We think he’ll be easier to rescue in their embassy--”

“You think your chances are better if you confront them in their own base of operations?” Karliah repeated. There might have been a bit of pity on the edges of her words, like she was making a deliberate, yet failed effort not to sound condescending.

“Their own base of operations that I have a key to,” Brina said, giving Ondolemar a nudge with her elbow, which he shifted away from. “We’ll make our own advantages, where their guard is lowest, and in order to do that we need at least to be able to keep pace with them. If we get a smuggling boat, we can shave days off the journey by going over the northern coast. The boats the guild used in the past have been short, low, and quick, and would be able to slip past any Imperial ships it might encounter once out of Stormcloak territory.”

Karliah clicked her tongue thoughtfully. She cast a sidelong glance at Kynvind, who curled her lips between her teeth, then said, “That’s a dangerous journey. The ice is unkind to ships. You may be over-estimating what the two of you are capable of.”

“Well,” Brina said, “I have one Stormcloak to take, Commander Eha Kalju, they call her Stormwind. And I was hoping you might loan me some of your thieves, as well. For the plan at the embassy to work I’ll need some people who can be light on their feet, able to sneak around without getting caught--”

“You’re already asking a lot from us, Stone-Cat,” Karliah interrupted. “Letting you and your-- _friend_ use a boat is a presumptuous request to begin; why should we entrust members of our order into your care, for what sounds like a suicide mission, for a man whose death we would probably prefer?”

Brina opened her mouth to speak, but nothing quite came out. There was no easy bargaining chip for the Thieves Guild, was there? “I’ll pay you,” Brina offered weakly. “I’ll pay you a _lot_. And I know the Bal Molagmer operates on a higher moral ground than that but -- but I’ll make sure you’re paid enough to make it worthwhile. For yourselves, for everyone.”

“Money is an easy thing to promise--”

“Please, I already promised to marry Ulfric just to be able to go at all without it being seen as a defection! I don’t know what else I could offer you, but my pride’s already taken enough damage for today, so please, please don’t make me beg, Karliah!”

A thick silence descended on the room, until at last it burst with three voices in unison, “ _What?_ ”

Thrynn now stood in the doorway to the sleeping quarters, eyes squinted like he was trying to solve a barrow puzzle, mouth agape.

By the Eight and Talos, Brina thought, had he always looked like this, or had her memory done him a disservice? The crown of his hair was long as ever, tied into a slept-in knot, while the lower portion was cropped short, messy and in need of a trim. His beard could be thick enough to store stuff in, and his cheeks were smeared with red ochre remaining from the day before. Over his cheekbones and nose were a smattering of scars gathered over a lifetime of altercations ranging from casual bar fights between friends, to the life-or-death battle of a schismed bandit clan. Unlike the girls, he hadn’t bothered to dress for their visitors, and only wore the bottom half of his leathers, no shoes.

And, for all his messy, just-awoken, rough edges, Brina found herself swallowing a heavy lump in her throat that dropped immediately to the pit of her stomach.

“Uhm, Thrynn -- this is bad timing and not the part I wanted you to hear, but -- if we could talk at some point about what happened last night--”

“You’re marrying Ulfric?! Why the fuck would you--?! What’s the matter with you?!”

“It’s purely political! I just need to give them a reason to trust me--”

“Does he know that it’s purely political?!” Thrynn cried. He had his hand on the frame of the doorway, and Brina wondered how long he could grip it like that before the wood shattered in his hand. “What’s gotten into you? That’s not an offer you make because you need leverage, that’s--”

“Maybe Karliah and I should leave you two to sort this out?” Kynvind suggested as Karliah tugged her arm to guide her out of the room; Ondolemar was already halfway down the stairs before she’d even finished the thought.

“What?” Brina said. “Wait! Wait, that’s not what this is about, I need a boat! Forget Ulfric, he’s not important!”

“Of course he’s not,” Amazing how much contempt Thrynn managed to fit into that one sentence; Vex must’ve given him lessons. “Because when has a man who’s ever courted you been important before?”

“He’s the High King, Thrynn! It’s different!”

“Not yet, he’s not,” Thrynn hissed.

Helpless, Brina threw her arms out to her sides. “Desperate times call for desperate, _desperate_ measures, Thrynn. You should know, for my brother, it’s a small price to pay. I’d do anything for him.”

“And what is Ulfric doing for you, huh? If I heard right you said he’s going to… what, _refrain_ from accusing you of treason? That’s really what it’s worth to him?”

She swallowed again. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“As a matter of fact, you have a _lot_ of explaining to do. What was said last night doesn’t even begin to cover it all.”

“I… actually don’t remember… what was said last night.” Brina’s black eyes dropped to the floor. “I was -- uhm -- _pretty_ drunk.”

 

Thrynn’s eyes widened as if she’d struck him. He was silent, staring at her, searching for some hint of deception. Of course, he knew well just what a terrible liar she’d always been.

The silence stretched.

And stretched.

She couldn’t say anything, the words were stolen from her, she just waited for him to say something…

Anything.

Anything…?

At last, after what felt like forever, he licked his lips and gave a slow nod. “Oh. Alright.”

Brina wasn’t sure at what point she’d started holding her breath. It came out in a rush. “ _Oh? Alright?_ ”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, and turned back toward the sleeping quarters. “Just… Get whatever you’re going to bring packed. I’ll talk to Kyn, Kyn will talk to Karliah, you’ll get your boat.”

Now it was Brina’s turn to stare incredulously. “What?”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Bri. Just get out of here, grab what you need, tie up your loose ends and be ready to go at the docks in a couple hours. I should have her convinced by then.”

Equal parts puzzled, concerned, and disbelieving, Brina followed his instruction and descended to collect Ondolemar and head back to the Stone Quarter.

Calder joined her in front of the Palace of Kings, and together they hurried into Hjerim to gather what was deemed necessary with many a glance over their shoulders. No sign of Thalmor prowling, but the Divines knew how we’ll they’d snuck up before.

They investigated each room before Brina began packing, but just as there was no sign of any remaining interlopers, neither was there any sign of how they’d gotten in, or managed such a perfectly stealthy attack on the Dragonborn himself.

The house thoroughly checked, Brina went to the bedroom to start packing. She began by going through her brother’s pack and transferring anything they could need into her satchel. Sure, it was mostly meant to hold ingredients and solvents, but the stained old thing was reliable as anything else Brina owned.

Ondolemar raised one manicured brow as he watched Brina pull Mehrune’s Razor out from her brother’s disorganized pack and fit it into the bottom of her satchel. His play at casual disinterest dissolved completely, however, only a split moment later when she pulled the next treasure from his bag. “Is that what I think it is?”

Brina wiped some pie filling off from the teeth of the Jagged Crown with her thumb, and set about fitting it into her satchel. “I can’t just leave it here unattended. I’ll feel better having it where I can see it.”

“And I trust that you have it for safe-keeping, or some similarly noble purpose, under the orders of your leader?”

“If you’re trying to get me to admit out loud why it’s not on Ulfric’s head right now, you’re not going to get the satisfaction. Yes, it’s exactly what you think it is, and it’s in my possession. That’s all there is to it.” She looped the satchel over her head and set about securing her cloak around her throat, casually as dressing for a stroll through town. “What, like you never kept secrets from your commanders?”

He rolled his eyes toward the shattered window. “Of that magnitude? Surely not,” said Ondolemar. 

“Oh. So the person in charge, what’s-her-name -- _Elowyn_ \-- she knew how close you were to Brother?”

“You know, I don’t believe it ever had reason to be included in my reports.” A pause. “And her name is Elenwen. She is a formidable enemy, and not a woman I’d ever hoped to be on the wrong side of. You might want to remember her name.”

Ominous as anything he’d said yet, but true. Brina made sure the solemnity was clear on her face when she nodded back to him.

Packed and prepared as she ever would be, with her life entirely uprooted and complicated in the course of a few hours, Brina and Ondolemar went together to the docks. Calder sent word to the Palace of Kings, and before long Eha emerged from the city in her full armor, a crate of supplies balanced on her thick pauldron.

“Where is the boat, Spirit?” she asked.

Brina clicked her tongue. Up and down the wharf, there were no familiar faces or signs of Thieves Guild activities. Did one of the docks have a shadow mark? “I don’t really know. But, uhm, he just said to meet here in a few hours.”

“The sun will be setting soon and your friend wants us to wait alone on the dark docks? Are you sure we can trust them?”

“Uh, honestly? I think the odds are about two-to-one that we can. I’d consider that-- _fairly_ okay. Hey, don’t look at me like that, remember that the situation is _dire_ right now! I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think we had to!”

The stone behind her scraped. Down, off the wharf proper and standing among the rocks on the shore beyond, a man in a ragged hooded cape beckoned to them. “Follow me. Is this everyone?”

“Thrynn! Y-yes, this is it. Er, uhm, wait, is there anyone else? Is Karliah letting me bring any of her people along?” Brina asked. She started toward the edge of the wharf and stopped short while she searched for the safest places to step.

“Your betrothed not coming to bid you farewell?” In two wide steps, Thrynn crossed over the jagged boulders and reached up, bending a knee to offer her a step. “No. Just me, and just to play ferryman. Figured if we didn’t at least send you with someone who knew how to sail it, you’d get yourselves wrecked before Winterhold, and we’d rather not replace the boat.”

“Uh, no. I guess not. I’m sorry, you’re probably missing out on real work, aren’t you?”

“For the money you promised, this is a job, and I will collect when we’re through. Don’t think this is a favor.”

While Brina followed Thrynn’s lead over the rocks, Ondolemar and Eha shared a tense glance.

“So, for this mission,” Eha said, “It will just be you, the elf, and myself? Should I go back and get your housecarl? Surely you don’t think us three will be enough against the every agent and Justiciar in their headquarters!”

“No, Calder’s been through enough. I have something else in mind anyway.” Brina flashed a smile over her shoulder. Although this day had been a horrid thing from start to finish, there was at least one thing she could always depend on: “I’ve got a friend in Dawnstar who will help!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Lena](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lena_TheProfessionalStudent/pseuds/Lena_TheProfessionalStudent), who was wonderful enough to beta read for me~!!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos! Kudos and comments make my day~~ Please, tell me your thoughts and feelings, I'd love to hear them! <3


	9. Snowberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first leg of their journey to Haafingar starts out safe. Then, becomes somewhat less so.

Skyrim makes Nords out of everyone; spend long enough among its snowy expanses, its towering forests, its sprawling moors or rugged cliffs, and eventually the frozen air won’t sting so much to breathe. Eventually, the snow will seep right into the soul.

Icebergs rose high in the distance, climbing up from the horizon like an unexplored mountain range of glass. Their boat glided smoothly, and no waves crashed against the nearby shore. With all the ice and the smattering of low tidal islands breaking up the sea, all the waves lost their bluster long before reaching their vessel. It was easy sailing, besides having to carefully cut through and around sheets of ice along the shoreline, which Thrynn managed easily as breathing.

He picked out the path of least resistance with a practiced eye. A press or pull of his weight against the tiller, and the whole boat swayed and dodged away from obstacles with an amount of control that had Brina fretting at just how much practice he must have gotten. He knew the way with confidence, and made mention of a shortcut through a fjord ahead. Apparently, the Guild’s occupation of a city on the coast had been put to very good use.

Being a good sport, Eha rowed when the wind didn’t favor them enough to raise the sail. The sail and mast could be pulled down completely for the purpose of stealth, and it was now folded down the center of the boat to keep it from freezing or growing icicles. Despite rowing for most the evening, she showed no signs of tiring.

“How far can we get tonight?” Brina asked from the front of the boat.

“Not very far. The wind will be on our side once we get past Winterhold, and the ice will get sparser around Dawnstar. Until then, it’s slow-going,” Thrynn said.

“Right,” said Brina. “Eha and I had just gotten home from rescuing a bunch of shipwrecked soldiers. I’ve seen how easy it can be for something to go wrong out here…”

“Nothing will go wrong.” Instant, almost offended, Thrynn made sure she could hear the defensiveness in his tone. “The journey to Haafingar will be the safest part of your stupid plan.”

Both moons shined bright on them, and the ribbons of auroras painted the world in a red cast that made hazards glow against the inky black waters. Thrynn pulled against the till, the only warning his passengers would get before the boat swayed far to the right to follow the curve of a landspit. 

Brina groaned. “If you say so. At least my stomach is used to the water. Ugh…! _Mostly._ ”

“Going by boat was your idea,” Eha said over her shoulder, not at all out of breath as her oars effortlessly circled into and out of the water.

“I know, I know… Believe me, I know. At least we’ll be moving faster than we could by land.”

“And I suppose you cannot get away from Windhelm fast enough,” Ondolemar said. His sardonic smile could cut through cannis. “Now that the dust is settling, you must have your regrets.”

His observation lingered in heavy air. Both Eha and Thrynn held their breaths and, though Brina faced away toward the open sea, she felt the heat on her back from their combined stares. “It doesn’t really matter. You’re reading too much into it.”

“I told you,” Thrynn said, and when Brina glanced back to give him a quizzical look, she frowned to realize that his quip was directed at Eha.

“Told her what?” Brina almost knew she wouldn’t want to know the answer, but if there was something she wasn’t in on--

“Nothing,” Eha snapped, sharply as Brina had ever heard her speak.

Brina shot a look to Ondolemar, equal parts confused and distraught; and Ondolemar, ever apathetic, turned from her in favor of watching a pair of horkers flounder toward the shore.

When Secunda dipped below the horizon, trailed by Masser, Thrynn finally steered the boat to land. He hopped out when they were close enough that only his boots would submerge, and pulled it the rest of the way until the boat and all its cargo was safely far from the tides.

“Get a fire started,” he said as he started pulling their meager camping supplies out from the bottom of the shallow hull and onto the frozen moraine shore. “Before my toes freeze off.”

Two mages and a handful of kindling later, and a blaze that would last them all night rose high between their hastily-arranged bedrolls. The sky was clear and brightly shining with swaths of rippling auroras, so there was no need to put up a tent in defense against snow.

Conversation was curt and tense while they ate, never a word spared when anyone could do without it, until Ondolemar announced he was finished with the pleasantries and would be going to sleep.

Brina nodded through the fire to Eha. “If you keep insisting on rowing, you should sleep, too. And you, Thrynn. You two are doing the hard work during the day, so I’ll keep watch through the nights.”

“Are you sure?” Eha asked, though she was already falling back into her furs.

“Yeah. I can sleep in the boat if I need to. Not that I wouldn’t help row, too, but--”

“But you’re about as strong as a luna moth,” Eha finished for her. A hint of a smile started at the corner of her mouth, almost as if some of their good rapport could be salvaged yet. “I know, Spirit, it’s alright. If you can stay awake, I’ll take you up on the offer. Only a few hours to dawn, anyway.”

Brina’s bodyguard was out the moment her head fell, which left Brina, Thrynn, and a silence like she’d plunged her head into a vat of spriggan sap. That was to say, uncomfortable by multiples and sapping her willpower with every passing second.

He sat on the edge of his bedroll, too near to the fire for Brina’s comfort, and focused wholly on his ration of over-salted meat. When at last she could catch his eye, he made a show of looking pointedly away from her.

“Uh, Thrynn, thank you again--”

“A job is a job, Bri. You’ve got to stop treating it like it’s personal.”

“It’s not a _good_ job, though. Or a pleasant one. And I know you aren’t thrilled about the company. I’m not saying it’s _not_ a job for you, but I still want you to know that I appreciate it. Even if you’re only here to get paid, you… you’re helping me to rescue Brother. There’s nothing in the world more important to me.”

“Feh.” He wouldn’t say anything more, and there was only so much she could say at him.

After a few minutes of silence between them, Brina fumbled in her bandolier for her battered old flask. The sound of her pulling the top off got Thrynn to look back at her and she lifted it in a small, chagrined salute. “The last bit of alcohol left in our house before Brother lost it and broke everything. Cyrodiilic brandy. It’ll help, if you need something to put you to sleep.”

“Is it going to put you to sleep, _lookout?_ ”

“Oh, gosh, no. I’d need to drink a lot for that. This is just to keep warm.”

“Huh…” He rolled onto his back, chest and arms flexing beneath his leathers as he got himself situated. His arms stretched up and back, hands lacing behind his head comfortably. The Guild leathers, supple enough to move with him, made no creak at the stretch or shift of his body. “Has it gotten worse?”

“What?” Brina said. The burn of the brandy didn’t strain her voice..

“Your drinking.”

“I’ve always drank, Thrynn. All the time, especially with the Guild.”

“And that wasn't a good thing, but, just asking, is it worse _now_?” He paused. “I have a feeling Zeno meant it when he said you needed to get your shit together last night.”

She scoffed. “What does it matter? I’m no worse than I ever have been, Brother just doesn’t like cleaning up messes that weren’t his to begin with.”

“If you say so.”

But suddenly the brandy didn’t taste as good. In fact, for the first time in a long time, the burn in her throat got to her, and she had to fasten the top before the anticipated warmth could begin glowing in her chest.

“Thrynn?”

“Hrmm?” He sounded more like a disgruntled snow bear than a person.

“How is the guild doing? How is everyone?”

He sighed so long and heavy that Brina almost thought it was the wind she was hearing. “If you cared, you should have come home and seen for yourself.”

Brina nodded. “I know, I know. But I can’t exactly do that right now, and I can’t go back to do that when I should have. Can you just tell me?”

He kept it short and simple. Money was coming in, and they were finally starting to feel secure again - that was why Brynjolf gave Karliah the okay to remove herself and several of their best to Windhelm to start a new chapter of the faction. The guild was assembling quite the team of private merchants and craftsmen to supply them, in addition even to the full host of vendors that’d been there while Brina was still around, as well as experts and irregulars to serve as consultants in particularly specialized jobs. Their relationship with Maven, ever strenuous since the suspicious murder of her granddaughter Ingun, proved less necessary than before. No longer reliant on a patron to make ends meet and keep their brood from starving in the sewers, Maven’s demands and coercion fell on deaf ears these days. Now, Maven relied on her own agents, separate from the guild.

“Riften’s not a big enough city for two factions of organized crime,” Brina pointed out.

“There have been some scuffles, but nothing dangerous just yet. We keep out of their business, they keep out of ours.”

“Until that business overlaps?”

Thrynn waved his hand dismissively. “Hasn’t come up, but Brynjolf will smooth it over when it does. Or Vex will end it herself. All the same, as long as Maven knows we can’t be bullied anymore.”

But that wasn’t the end of Thrynn’s tale. Life in the guild turned up in the last couple of years, a phenomenon that Brina only just witnessed the beginning of before she left for good. The cistern got an upgrade, with sturdy, rodent-free beds and tapestries to keep the chill out. Vekel stocked good mead and wine, and was only watering it down by half, last Thrynn tasted.

Also, those pools in the cistern were getting furnished with soaps and oils, warmed by runes placed by an irregular -- incredible what a difference regular and warm baths could do to improve their standard of living! If they hadn’t felt like royalty with the mounting hoards of riches, they did now. At least one new recruit cited the rumors of hot baths as a primary reason they wanted to join; a life of crime is easily more desirable than bathing in Lake Honrich in winter, no matter who you are.

Of course, an influx of new members meant new friendships, and rivalries, being forged each day.

Brynjolf, married to his job as ever, started cracking down on the inner-circle romances and making rules about fraternizing in the guild. It was apparently starting to get out of hand, and while the gossip and intrigue was fun once in a while, Brynjolf was getting tired of breaking up lover’s spats and putting down childish drama between thieves. But while the new rules forced the guild to be more subtle about their relationships and falling-outs, it hardly _stopped_ anyone. Sapphire and Rune were an item these days, surprising no one; Vex and Galathil the Face Sculptor were some kind of something, too, but no one dared pry for details and neither were volunteering any.

“We splintered off about six months ago,” Thrynn said, and by now his voice was thick and slow, eyes barely staying open. “We’re still in close contact with Riften, though. A lot of their business comes through Windhelm, anyway, and that boat,” he said, waving blindly toward their little smuggler tipped on its side to block the wind from their camp, “is generally used for their jobs, but our chapter gets a cut since I’m almost always the one sailing it for them.”

“Do you miss it? I mean, all that progress, seeing the guild improve and get richer, don’t you regret leaving _now_? You saw them through the famine, and as soon as the feast is full-swing, you’re sharing a drafty attic with a dozen or more in the Windhelm slums.”

“The whole Bal Molagmer side-project made the choice to relocate, and that included me. I could have turned it down and quit the Bal - Vex fought hard enough to keep me in Riften and started talking promotions - but it was worth it to go. And it meant the world to Kynvind. She’s annoying as fuck all sometimes, but she’s my best friend. I promised her I’d stick with it, so I did.”

Brina had to look away from him before heat could rise in her cheeks. Why in Oblivion was a highwayman so damn earnest? So kind where it counted? She was standing at the bottom of Helgen’s wall all over again. She nearly forgot how often and easily he could bring her back to that single formative moment. “I think you made the right choice.”

“Not that I’d trust your judgment on ‘right choices,’ but thanks. I’m going to sleep. You sure you can stay awake to keep watch?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.” She swallowed the painful catch in her throat. “Goodnight, Thrynn.”

She had her turn to rest when dawn broke over the glaciers to the east and they set sail once again. Brina reclined across one narrow bench, her cloak pulled over her eyes and tight around her shoulders, and pretended to be asleep when she heard whispering around her.

Listening in on her companions was fruitless. Every few minutes she caught herself slipping from consciousness, and lost track of their conversations for minutes at a time. Eventually she gave up fighting her exhaustion, and drifted off on the lullaby of Thrynn’s low voice.

~~~

Brina reclined comfortably in the back of a wagon, swaddled in a pile of furs. They were bear pelts, and probably should have been coarse and rough, but they gave beneath her soft as down. Only when her pillow shifted beneath her did she realize that her head was cradled in a lap.

Fiery red curls tumbled over Brina’s face, and the dancing birch leaves above her became eclipsed by Ama Nin’s gently smiling face.

“I stopped Walking like you,” Brina said. “I think I stopped once Sanguine told me I was doing it.”

“A shame,” she said, “you wear my mantle well, when you deign to put it on.” Her fingers smoothed the dark gray knit of the blouse she’d gifted her.

Brina frowned. “I know that’s a compliment, but I think I’ve liked walking my own way. What happens when you get caught up seeing other people in yourself? Do you stop being yourself? Do you just stop being?”

“It’s happened before.”

Brina ran a hand over her face, and tried not to think too hard about that. “Why are you here? I thought you gave up on me.”

“You looked lonesome. And true, we are different. But I thought you could do with a reminder of our similarities. And some admonishment.”

“What similarities? Capacity for love? Mercy?”

“Yes, and not only have you been ignoring all my teachings on both those things, not to mention sobriety, you’ve made quite an insult against me.”

For a moment, she thought she could roll over and fall back asleep, and cut the conversation short, but Ama Nin had none of it, and like a stern mother to an insubordinate child, she pulled Brina back to her.

Ama Nin settled a look of true parental disappointment upon Brina. “Marriage as a bargaining chip? I am aghast. Your behavior has been reprehensible for some time now, but at that, I felt the need to intervene.”

“Oh, that was the part where it felt personal to you? Well. You know what situation really called for divine intervention? When my brother got kidnapped. Your rules aren’t useful to me, so I don’t follow them -- it’s just that simple. Be shocked and appalled all you want, but until you actually have something to say that helps me--”

And in that instant, she was bolting up from the bench of the boat, half-strangling herself in her tangled cloak. Leave it to the Aedra to come preaching at her while she was trying to sleep. 

The divines were rude as ever, damn them all.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Eha said. For once she wasn’t rowing, but resting beside the unfurled sail. “Were you having a nightmare? You seem unsettled.”

“Hm? Oh, I think I woke up before it got bad.” Of course, getting the last word in an argument with a divine didn’t necessarily mean the argument was won, a lesson Brina learned more than once. “Where are we?”

A quick survey of the scenery answered her well enough. They sailed on wind howling between tall cliffs on either side. At the bottom of those rocky cliffs, Brina saw piles of cut stone, broken lumber, and the occasional piece of bent iron burning red with rust through the white. The broken remains of dozens of buildings climbed way up toward the top along the jagged rocks.

“Is this…?” She looked up and over her shoulder, to a narrow stone bridge reaching over the channel of water like a frail arm holding desperately to land. “Winterhold?”

“It is,” answered Ondolemar. “You see the ruins of the city, and the college above.”

“We’re moving fast, then,” Brina said. She stood carefully and inched her way closer to Ondolemar to sit on the bench beside him. “Is the college still occupied by Thalmor agents?”

“One agent, but yes. Why? Are you considering where you might go when you have a newly-wed husband to avoid? It’s a good plan, actually. He’ll be far too busy running his kingdom to bother chasing after you anywhere, least of all a school of the arcane.”

“That wasn’t--” Brina glanced over her shoulder to Eha. And the Stormcloak, though not obviously listening, seemed to be sitting especially rigid and straight at her spot by the sail. “That’s not what I was getting at. I’m just wondering how many places, similar places, are there Thalmor agents infiltrating. The bard’s college? The Companions? Maybe even the... Thieves Guild?”

“The Companions are a glorified mercenary band that rarely gets involved in anything important enough to notice, and certainly nothing worth sending a trained agent to them for. They’re far from political.”

They must not have actually _met_ Arvid, the Companion’s golden-hearted but strongly opinionated Harbinger. He was instrumental in helping the Stormcloaks take Whiterun, and added insult on injury by helping Brina to escape Zenotha before she’d even known who the mysterious Justiciar was. Presumably, they hadn’t noticed or cared when Kodlak was replaced and the leadership took a decidedly political turn.

For the best then that the Thalmor didn’t know or realize, Brina decided, and she let Ondolemar continue: “Once, years ago, we tried to plant someone in the Thieves Guild. In one of their first jobs for the group, meant only to gain their trust, something went wrong and they were killed. The risk was deemed too great for how much actionable information we expected to get through them, so we decided to stay our course with our own spy network and leave the underworld to their own devices.”

Oh, yeah, the guild as a whole barely lasted through their curse of ill fortune. Not everyone among them survived it. Made sense that those least invested in Nocturnal’s pack in the sewers would be among the casualties.

“As for the Bard’s College, it was never deemed necessary. The College doesn’t need to be infiltrated, as Solitude is the most compliant and cooperative city in Skyrim to the Imperials and, therefore, to the Thalmor; we don’t need to fool performers and entertainers and poets to share what gossip they cross, they gladly indulge us without prompting.”

Brina ran her tongue over her cold-cracked lips. “That makes sense… Any other factions, though?”

Ondolemar made a show of looking innocently ignorant, an expression that fit so poorly on his haughty face that Brina nearly choked on a laugh. “Other factions, my dear Miss Valus?”

“The, ah… The Dark Brotherhood?”

“A myth, I hear,” Ondolemar answered dutifully, even as his eyes drew a leading glance Eha’s way. She probably couldn’t hear their conversation from where she sat on the boat, over the droll of waves and sea wind, but Ondolemar knew well that secrets aren’t kept by tempting fate.

“ _Hypothetically_ , though,” Brina said.

“ _Hypothetically_ , then.”

“If the Thalmor had the chance to place an agent there, would they?”

“That hypothetical requires several assumptions,” Ondolemar said. “Why are you wondering all this?”

“Could a double-agent be how they were able to sneak up on us? To break through Brother’s twelve-tumbler lock? To kidnap him with ease? How else could someone know enough to do that?”

Ondolemar paused and cast his eyes on the wreckage smattered across the cliff. What wasn’t covered in snow was worn away by the sea-salt winds, leaving old beams and bits like dry dragon bones. He said, “A double-agent, hm? Every hypothesis of my own is equally grim. But if we are going to be prepared to counter them, we ought to know what tricks they employed to get this far.”

“What are your theories?” Brina asked.

“They’re all wildly different and would call for entirely unique tactics to counter, so it’s best if we don’t dwell too long until I have any evidence to support them. But for now, Miss Valus, we should focus on one possibility at a time. I trust you can investigate your theory when we arrive in Dawnstar?”

She forced a nod, though every muscle in her body painfully tense. “I can’t think who it could have been.”

“Try not to stress yourself too much,” Ondolemar said, “or you won’t be thinking straight when it counts. Knowing their advantages will be invaluable, but as of now, we are in no position to do much but continue forward. Keep your wits about you.”

Easy for him to say. The more time Brina spent on the water, the more she caught her face slipping into a frown. She knew well the anxiousness that came with traveling, the frustration of counting the hours ahead, and comparing them to the hours passed as if that would somehow bring a sense of progress or satisfaction. It never did.

Boats. Faster than walking, sure, technically, but sitting on a log and floating in the ocean had a certain helpless, vulnerable feeling about it that, between this journey and her just-finished rescue at Serpentstone Isle, Brina was positively fed up with.

The wind blowing from the Sea of Ghosts came with a certain chill unlike what you’d feel anywhere else in the frozen province. There was something profound and unsettling about it, about the tide that pulled them back toward Atmora and the wind that pushed them back away. Unfathomable depths that roiled like ink from Hermaeus Mora’s unholy library. Somewhere out in this thrice-damned sea, Brother met with the Riddle Unsolvable and that fateful encounter led them to where they were now.

“If we push hard, there’s an island we can get to in time to camp. I’ve used it a few times, it’s got high ground and a good vantage point to watch for anything that might try and eat us,” Thrynn said. “That’s our goal.”

“If it’s such a good spot, are you certain that it isn’t being made use of by thieves, or bandits?” asked Eha.

“You won’t have to worry about that,” Thrynn assured her.

She wasn’t wrong to wonder, she knew, and her whole face twisted into a frown as she realized for the umpteenth time that her company was the thief of which she warned. And, for the umpteenth time, she heaved a sigh and turned her attention back to the glaciers around them.

A dragon's roar could echo through the air from miles away. It shook through the atmosphere, knocking clouds off the wind's course. It reverberated from the rocks and ice. Brina had only just turned her eyes to the chilled gray sky to find it on the horizon, only to catch it sweep from south to north over them.

Brina called something out, a cry to get ready, an instruction for Eha and Thrynn to take up bows, or a demand for Ondolemar to ready a magical shield over them -- quickly! But it was lost in another roar, and then in the horrible crack of the ice just beyond their boat as the dragon crashed into it with purpose and disappeared under the sheet.

By the gods, this was a new trick, one that Brina had no strategy for. In the brief calm before the storm, Brina stood up in the boat and glanced over her shoulder at her companions. "Has... has anyone fought a dragon who did that before?"

Eha shook her head. She must have donned her helmet instantly, probably at the initial roar, and now readied her heavy bow. "It's going to come out, though. If it wanted to surprise us, it succeeded."

"It can't try to come up beneath us. Not where it's so shallow. What is it playing at?" Thrynn asked. He moved to the edge and looked over.

There wasn't time. Who knew how long this diver would make them worry and watch for it, so she turned her attention away and instead began tearing through her satchel. While Brina intended to save these particular vials for more desperate times, surely a dragon attack was dangerous enough to warrant the sacrifice. She'd stock back up on potions at the sanctuary. "Everyone, quick," she said, passing around an oily red concoction. "Resistance to frost. I have a feeling we'll--"

In a burst of water and a shower of crystalline ice like a frozen fountain magicked back to life in winter, the boat capsized. Her hand clasped so hard on the one vial she still held, Brina almost more feared to break it in her grasp than lose it in the confusion. Her eyes locked on that vial like her life depended on it-- and to be sure, it might! -- in a desperate attempt to focus on something other than the chaos of being knocked from the boat.

But the water was so cold, so, so cold, that forming any thoughts, thoughts of fear or thoughts of potions, they all disappeared in an increasing scream of agony through her brain. Her ears filled with water, roaring louder than dragon's shouts, and her arms and legs went numb and slipped against the sea floor when she tried to make purchase against it.

A hard hand on her arm yanked her up and forward. The water was indeed shallow enough here that Thrynn was standing upright, feet on the shifting rocks and shoulders above water. They were hidden under the capsized boat. Brina couldn't figure out what sounds were just the echoes of the sea caught around them, what was the dragon, and what was her own faculties failing her as the frozen water sapped the heat, energy, life from her body. Everything hurt, every part of her ached, but the sensation was fast subsiding to a terrifying numbness.

"Give me that. Bri. Open your mouth." He pried the potion from the locked joints of her hands and poured it into her. "How long is that supposed to take? Can you hear me?"

Her body never shook so vigorously in her life, but she heard his voice echoing past the ringing and water in her ears, and it was just enough to keep her mind from falling apart from terror and pain. "Nnn--!"

"Well, it'd better kick in quick. We're gonna need you as soon as you can cast." And then he slid back beneath the water and out of the boat, into the fray with the foolhardiness of a true Nord.

Her veins burned beneath her skin as the potion went to work, immediately raising the temperature in her body like hot steam working its way through Dwemer pipes. Her extremities took longer to get the feeling back, but within seconds she was steeling herself to leave from the shelter of the boat. A few seconds was all the potion took -- but seconds are precious in a battle with a dragon, and Brina swallowed thickly to imagine the damage already done to the others in the short time it took her.

Thank Talos and the Eight for durable companions. Eha’s heavy armor might’ve drowned her in deeper waters, but she stood knee-deep and near the shore, firing from her bow as rapidly as she could nock her next arrow.

Ondolemar looked cold, and irate, and terrifying. He kept himself just warm enough with a shroud of fire that turned the sea around him to hissing steam.

It was big, and ugly, and didn’t flinch when an arrow bloomed above its eye.

Arrows rained down from the two Nords, and a wave of heat from Ondolemar, but it roared and started to dive again--

“Everyone, out of the water!” Brina said. They had come up where it was too shallow for it to exactly sneak up on them, or come up beneath them, but no one questioned her. The dragon was in the water, therefore, the water was unsafe.

They clammered to the rocky shore, all save Brina, who swallowed a throatful of nerves. She scolded herself under her breath, “This is a bad idea--”

\-- And cast a powerful bolt of lightning into the oncoming waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did I write so many words that describe basically nothing actually happening. I can't believe I thought this was going to be shorter than the original Briinah's story.


	10. Morning Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dragon at sea suddenly doesn't seem like the worst thing that could go wrong.

“A ship?” Legate Sevan Telendas liked to consider himself a busy man. But out here, they were far from the action, held in suspense while the war waged hotter and fiercer elsewhere. Isolated here in the Winterhold Imperial camp, he was beginning to wonder if General Tullius outright forgot about him and his small contingent. _This_ was the first noteworthy thing his spies had scrounged up for him in weeks. A ship. Sailing. In the sea.

“Smaller. A smuggling boat,” the soldier, Matus, corrected pointedly. “The kind one uses when they don’t intend to dock in any respectable port, or bother trying pass themselves off as legitimate. The small, quiet sort you use when you don’t intend for anyone to know the boat exists at all.”

Telendas nodded. “I see. So a small, quiet sort of smuggling boat has been spotted. If you think it’s too small be be carrying supplies or fugitives, why do you think I should be concerned?”

Of course, it would give them something to do. It would give his men an actual task with tangible results for the first time in a morale-crushingly long time.

His subordinate didn’t even have a chance to answer before Telendas waved his arm. “If they’re as close to shore as you say they are, see if you can’t intercept them. Shoot burning arrows at them, or cut them off at an inlet, if you can. See their criminal activities halted, whatever they may be up to.”

“Aye, Legate,” Matus said, and he was off.

No, it probably wasn’t important, and they probably wouldn’t get anything useful for it, but Legate Telendas knew he made the right choice when he saw the smile curving on his soldier’s face, and the excited ring of voices outside his tent a moment later.

They were bored. They needed distraction. And Telendas was silently grateful to these criminal scum, whoever they were, for finally providing some.

~~~

Kynvind wore a smug smile all the next day. It wasn’t for lifting seven purses in record time, it wasn’t for getting a nap in when she found the shared quarters miraculously empty of all occupants in the early afternoon, and it wasn’t because she knew her leathers were fitting her especially well today.

“We did the right thing, you know,” Kynvind finally came right out and said as they sat together on the roof of the cornerclub and surveyed their territory. “Brina needed us. It was right of us to help her.”

“Only because now we have a possible future High Queen owing us a mighty favor. And here I thought you were so opposed to using her for political leverage,” Karliah hummed back. As snow began to gather on her hair and shoulders, she pulled the hood of her Nightingale cloak up over her head. “But now it’s the right thing to do, hm?”

For a moment, Kyn choked on whatever she’d meant to say next. Then with a huffed-out sigh that floated up in a cloud of steam between them, she said, “I didn’t like your attitude at first, when it was all about taking advantage of her. But now it’s not about that. It’s about helping her -- and helping her to redeem herself. She can save her brother and, sure, make it up to us in the long run by helping with our cause. Her heart’s mostly in the right place. I meant what I said before, I don’t believe she left us out of spite. I think Zeno’s just bad for her. She’s not perfect, never has been, but if what she wants really is to help us--”

“What she wants is to help her brother, and keep her conscience quiet as she does so,” Karliah interjected. “Her dedication to our mission is lip service. We can’t collect on her goodwill. We _can_ collect on favors she owes us.”

“The Gray Quarter is being opened up to Argonians. It’s a step, and it proves she means some of it without us needing to hold anything over her head,” Kynvind said.

“But a small step in the grand scheme of things, and now the Gray Quarter is too full, and no one has anywhere else to go.”

“I thought you wanted this?” Kyn scoffed with a roll of her eyes.

Karliah’s lavender eyes drank Kynvind in for a moment. She was naive, younger than almost everyone else in the guild save for Sofie. A beautiful face, a gentle blush across her cheeks from the cold evening air, and eyes that pierced through defenses with such righteous fury and justice. After a beat, a moment that hung just a bit too long, Karliah reached across the tiled roof to thread their fingers together. “I do. There’s so much that I want, Kynvind. I want for us to succeed here. I want for us to make this town, this hold, this world a better place. I want for your help to make it happen. I want to take advantage of every asset, every sort of leverage, every tool to make it happen. But I also don’t want to get my hopes up on people who’ve betrayed us before. And I don’t want you to, either. We’re going to use the Valus family. But never, ever trust them. And we will not be content that they will fight our battles for us. This is our mission. Do you understand?”

And Kynvind was silent, her sharp eyes unfocused and distant in a way Karliah so rarely saw them. But the haze over her lifted within moments. Her fingers squeezed around Karliah’s and she gave a short, resolute nod. “I understand. We’re the Bal Molagmer. I’ve wanted to be this my entire life and I won’t -- I _won’t_ be content to let someone else take matters out of my hands. I wanted to do what’s right -- not to give up. Never, ever to give up.”

Meaning to go back into the cornerclub, Karliah began to pull her hand away, but Kynvind held her firmly. “Stay with me a few more minutes. Please? I know it’s cold, but there’s a good feeling in the air tonight. Good luck in the air. I want to breathe it all in.”

And for a moment, Karliah felt it herself. The shroud of Nocturnal was draped upon this city, draped over the two of them. Their matron would give them luck -- but only if they could provide the cunning, the skill, and the determination to see it through.

~~~

His breath was gone, whole body burning from exertion and blood dribbling down his chin, but he had just enough left in him to hiss, “Fuck this and fuck you.”

Zeno’s lungs filled once more, a quick gasp of air like he’d been submerged underwater for too long -- 

Zenotha shoved the gag back in place, made sure his jaw buckled uncomfortably around it, and waved for the Justiciars to lift him from the ground. This hadn’t been intended to be a break from walking, after all. Just a quick moment to share with her least favorite human, to remind him of her power over him, to demonstrate how absolutely damned he was. Sometimes, she just couldn’t help herself.

And by the Eight, Zenotha _earned_ this! So long spent chasing after him and his sister, only to miss them at every turn! It took too long. They were championing for Talos, joining the Stormcloaks, getting noisy about being in Sovngard and witnessing the blessings of Shor-Talos firsthand -- it complicated matters spectacularly for the Thalmor, which made Zenotha, long-since intended to intervene, look all the worse.

She flinched to remember the letters from her mother. The looks of smug disappointment on her superiors’ faces. A hair’s breadth away from a demotion. It was only because her old mentor called in a few favors that she hadn’t been stripped of her station and sent off to someplace impossibly worse than Skyrim. Solstheim, perhaps, or the ashen wastes of Vvardenfell.

Zeno ruined her reputation. Ruined her career. Ruined her once beautiful name, even!

Damn all humans, but damn _these ones_ the most!

A new trail of blood carved its way from his scalp where her gauntlet had cut through him, over his eye and down his dimpled cheek to drip freely down his chest. If the pain bothered him, he never showed it -- the burning in his eyes was that of pure rage. Surely, were it not for the gag in his mouth, and her own cleverness learning the timing of his breaths and shouts, he’d have blown her to bits with a yell of defiance.

He would get no such satisfaction. After years on the assignment to capture and control the Valuses, at last, Zenotha had won.

She lifted a fresh vial full of an oily green liquid to her smirking lips. “If he cannot keep up walking,” she instructed, “drag him on rocks behind us. He only has to be living when we arrive at the Embassy. But I never promised Elenwen he’d be unharmed.”

~~~

It didn’t take long for the Imperial scouts to find the smuggling boat. As sneakily as it had been sailing,there was no hiding it in the midst of their current predicament.

For, long before the scouts actually set eyes on the boat, overturned and floating in a channel between the ice and the shore, they saw a dragon breathe a maelstrom of ice before diving down into the sheet of ice over the sea.

“By the eight!” Matus breathed. When he told Legate Telendas of this boat, he imagined some minor contraband, maybe at most orders or information regarding Stormcloak activity. Something, at least, worth getting himself and a few of his comrades out of camp for a few hours, perhaps a day.

If he’d known there would be a dragon, would he still have suggested intercepting them?

He glanced over his shoulder at the other scouts he brought along with him. Five in total, good soldiers but no dragonslayers!

They shared a look, the five of them, as they silently deferred to each other what to do.

Jytte made a decision first. She raised her brows, then her bow, because, well, of course _she_ was willing to fight a real, actual _dragon_.

Even Matus, adventurous and daring in his own right, often needed her careless abandon to inspire him to truly take a leap. As always, her boldness was infectious. The scouts nodded with her.

Anyway, they came out here for a smuggling ship and the people on board, and one way or another, they were going to get it. Just with more steps involved than previously planned. They wouldn’t be very good at their jobs if they couldn’t adapt to new circumstances on a mission.

A spectacular, blinding burst of light spread across the surface of the water like a hundred Welkynd stones shattering and skipping on the surface of the ice, and a blink of an eye later, a crack of thunder echoed off the snow and stone around them.

“Smugglers have a mage!” Matus warned. It was a whisper out of habit and occupational necessity, but he wondered if any of the others could even hear it over the ringing in their ears.

The lightning in the water precluded the dragon’s furious return the the sky as it shot from the ice with a roar unlike the soldiers had ever heard before.

Undaunted, Jytte let the first arrow fly. Down from their position, at the bottom of the steep snowy hill where the scouts could not see, an arrow joined hers. Then, a bolt of fire.

“At least one archer,” Matus said, able to hear his own voice once again, “and a second mage. Jytte, Horatia, stay with me. Erens and Ulrald, go around to the other side to flank. First priority is the dragon, but in the meantime, don’t let the smugglers escape or get better ground on us.”

Jytte loosed another arrow. If her attacks weren’t enough to give away their presence, the hum of her massive bow certainly did it. Matus swore, he could have heard that blasted bowstring vibrate from a hundred yards away. The tradeoff was, with a bow and skill like hers, her target could well be just that distance or further!

Matus pulled his own bow from his shoulder. Less of an archer than the others, he could still make himself useful until or unless the dragon got close. In which case, well, he’d be useless in a different way. The eaten whole sort, most likely.

One, two, three arrows from the scouts on this side, and then, a moment later, from some distance where Erens and Ulrald took up a flanking position on the smugglers. Erens made a gesture, one Matus ought to have been trained to recognize instantly and easily, but the dragon demanded too much attention, and Matus couldn’t quite decipher what Erens was trying to say from this distance.

Jytte’s arrow shattered against the dragon’s plates, but she barked a laugh and pulled again. And again. Bless the madwoman, it was a game to her.

The dragon swooped downward. From their place on the hill, they could surmise that the dragon was coming down on the smugglers positioned on the beach, but Matus couldn’t actually see them.

Wings beat the air, making sound like a howling winter wind against the shore. Then, the noise was accompanied by a cry of distress.

A stream of electric magic that had been coming from further off the beach - the first mage, Matus deducted - stopped immediately with a shriek of horror.

Two smugglers down, Matus thought grimly. Hopefully enough would survive this for them to bring back to the Legate, or at least question before they perished.

Matus waved his arm to his comrades, and slipped his bow back over his shoulder in favor of his sword. The scouts waved back an affirmative and moved in from their cautious distance.

When they made it down the hill, Matus immediately recognized what Erens meant to communicate before. Any other Altmer might have fooled him, might have meant nothing to Matus out of their formal robes of office. But this was no dime-a-dozen Justiciar. This was none other than Ondolemar himself, the head of Thalmor Justiciars in the province!

Ondolemar’s hands erupted in flames than melted through the snow at his feet. He called something out, and a woman’s voice answered.

With the Stormcloak’s standard worn on her plate armor, the woman beside Ondolemar swept across the ground with a grace and fearlessness that nearly stole Matus’s breath away. Thank the Eight she was striking the dragon and not him! She swung her mighty greatsword wide so that its weight lent it speed and power by force of gravity alone. And when it made contact with the dragon’s thick neck, the armor it wore audibly cracked.

“Again!” Ondolemar shouted. “And-- leave him, we need more fire --!”

“You and Eha take care of it! I can’t!”

The first mage wasn’t dead after all, Matus realized. He was just making it down to the fight, sword raised, when he caught sight of her to the side of the fray. She had a warm glow of aetherial energy in her hands that made the blood on her body and face gleam like the sunset on water. The subject of her healing, a soaking-wet Nord man sprawled upon the cold ground, lay still beneath her hands. Her attention was focused entirely, as if she couldn’t be bothered with the dragon just a few yards away.

Her wet hair was freezing against her face. It must have been the cold that made her tremble so.

Ondolemar’s eyes widened on their sudden company arriving from the hilltop above, but far be it from him, or anyone going toe-to-toe with an ancient evil such as this, to reject such a blessing.

A volley of arrows rained from Erens and Jytte. Matus moved into position to cut into the scales broken by the Stormcloak woman while she moved on to break the scales further up its face. And Ondolemar, at its head, kept himself moving backwards and up the hill to keep from getting ripped apart by the beast’s gnashing teeth, and while sending bolts of fire into its mouth and eyes.

Between Matus, two scout archers, two other scout swords, and the mismatched band they’d come to the rescue of, the dragon was quickly realizing it might be better off fighting another day. With a roar that sent Ondolemar at odds with gravity, tumbling up the hill from whence the scouts had descended, it pushed its wings to the ground and went upward.

“Not so fast, bastard!” Jytte said. That monster of a bow hummed out a long, low note, and an arrow crashed ruthlessly into its belly from below. Her arrow was followed by more from the scouts, and then a crack of lightning that burst angrily from the healer.

That bolt of lightning burned Matus’s sight, drawing a jagged line of seething red across his vision that lingered long after the dragon keened its death and plummeted into the ice atop the sea. This time, instead of diving through the shelf, it crashed gracelessly. If the sound was the ice cracking, or the dragon’s bones breaking on impact, Matus could not begin to tell.

At once, the scouts sang in victory and relief. For three of the five, this was their first time fighting a dragon. For the other two, this was certainly their most successful battle against such a foe.

But the “smugglers,” or whatever they were under these strange circumstances, did not share their mirth. The Stormcloak dropped her sword on the spot and ran to the side of the healer.

“Is he alright?” the Stormcloak asked. 

“Not yet,” the healer said. “I just turned away to stop the dragon -- If it dies now, it can’t come back at us later -- But he’s… he’s not good, Eha. Where’s Ondolemar?”

Eha waved over her shoulder, but didn’t bother looking back. “Force-shouted up the hill. He’ll be fine. I’ll set the boat right, we’ll get Thrynn in--”

“And then what? He was the one who knew how to sail it!”

“It’s just a boat. We’ll figure it out, and we can’t be that much further from Dawnstar. We can get help there.”

“Help’s closer than Dawnstar,” Matus said. When both women turned on him, he felt himself shrink. He pointed to Eha’s Stormcloak armor, then looked up the hill to where Ondolemar was stomping down. “Your disguises are good, but I would recognize a man as important as Justiciar Ondolemar no matter what he wore. Not to fear; you’re out of enemy territory now. Allow us to escort you to camp. We’ll see to his wounds, repair your boat, whatever you need to get you back on your mission.”

Eha was silent, still as stone, and Matus wished he knew what face she made behind the steel of her helm. “Our mission is… we don’t have time to spare.”

And on the ground, still healing away, the mage pursed her lips hard between her teeth. “We’ve made good time up until now. And if we keep pushing on… Eha, I don’t know if I can save him if we don--” Her voice broke. It was a soft, confused sound, like she wasn’t sure _how_ to cry. She took in a deep breath, and held it.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright! Ulrald, Horatia! Carry the wounded! Jytte, please escort the ladies! I’ll --” Matus looked up to where Ondolemar now stood, halfway down the hill.

His golden face was twisted, eyes narrowed sharply. Matus swallowed thickly - surely the Justiciar was just annoyed by having been thrown by the dragon. So why did Matus feel like that glower was directed at _him?_

He cleared his throat. “I will escort Justiciar Ondolemar and see how we can best assist them on their mission.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments, kudos, notes, thoughts are all so incredibly appreciated!! Thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos thus far~!!!


	11. Hanging Moss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ondolemar's decision to help Brina did not come from nothing. His betrayal to the Aldmeri Dominion has been building to this since the day he met the Dragonborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be included in the drabble-and-extras work [More Tales of Briinah](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12263667/chapters/27869811), but it got really, _really_ long, and I realized that it's actually very relevant to the main story. You know, considering that it explains why Ondolemar turned traitor and all.
> 
> Lots of time skips ahead, and it goes roughly from Zeno's early days arriving in Skyrim, to present.

Back then, Zeno was new to Skyrim, and especially new to Markarth, but he learned his way around easily. So easily, in fact, that Ondolemar was only half surprised when the curious little Imperial began letting himself into Understone Keep for casual exploration, striding right on in as if he’d been sent for.

Compact like an acrobat, with a lot of strength packed into a relatively small and slender frame, he hid sleek leather armor beneath traveling clothes but wore his weapons on his belt without a care who saw them. Zeno, strange and forthright, had no qualms admitting to Ondolemar that he’d defected from the Imperial Legion just a few years ago, or that he’d dodged Thalmor patrols through the Jerall Mountains to get into the province.

And yet, for all the incriminating facts he just said, like they didn’t matter at all, he still managed to be an absolute enigma. Where, exactly, was he from? What was he doing in Skyrim? What was he doing in Markarth? What in Oblivion was he up to?

Questions like that kept the brat alive, especially on days like this.

Ondolemar entered his office to find the sconces already burning, a bottle of wine already opened. He nearly turned to compliment his retinue on their quick and thoughtful preparation, when he caught sight of the true culprit.

Zeno, naturally. Comfortably sitting beside the desk, he glanced at the papers there casually as if he wasn’t _really_ all that interested in what Justiciars were patrolling where, but he wouldn’t mind if he _happened_ to find out. A sort of glib attitude that Ondolemar knew all too well from a lifetime spent in the midst of Third Aldmeri Dominion bureaucracy. Really, Zeno rather reminded him of a Thalmor agent. Born under outrageously different circumstances, Zeno might’ve been quite a star among their ranks.

A moot point, Ondolemar reminded himself quickly. There was nothing about the short, sharp-tongued Imperial that could ever be mistaken for Altmer, and to suggest a human _could_ have ever been born Altmer was a certain kind of heresy entirely at odds with what the Dominion stood for.

“There you are!” he said, cheerful as Saturalia. Half the time, he put on a show of being mild-mannered and reasonably-reserved. In those instances, he played the part of a normal Imperial, though the expressions he wore on his face never quite seemed right, and the words out of his mouth came too smooth, too practiced, to be fully believable. The other half the time, he truly did not care whether anyone saw through to the real him.

The him that was deceitful, and selfish, and worse things that Ondolemar was certain he just hadn’t had the chance to see for himself yet.

_\-- Could have been born an Altmer, would have been an incredible Justiciar…_

“Indeed, here I am. This is my office, after all.” Now it was Ondolemar’s turn to put on a false face. He hid the smirk that wanted to turn his lips. He glared instead, figuring it something like a compromise. “I wasn’t aware we had an appointment. I’d ask you to speak with one of my agents, rather than waste my time, but I imagine only something very important could have inspired this level of presumption. So, by all means. What do you think you’re doing here?”

“That depends.” Zeno smiled. It was a little too wide, and for a moment Ondolemar couldn’t tell if his act was slipping, or if even Zeno’s honest expressions were also just a little _off_. “What do you require of me?”

“I’m certain I didn’t call for you.” He would have remembered. 

Zeno shook his head. “No, you didn’t. But I’m here to see if you need anything of me. I’m not a model citizen, but I…” His eyes gleamed. “I have a good feeling about you. I think we could benefit each other. So, I’m offering my time. What do you need? What sort of mess do you not want to dirty your pretty little golden hands with?”

Despite himself, Ondolemar barked a laugh before he could catch it. “I see. You want me to owe you a favor?”

“Are you in, or not?”

“Do you think that’s how it works?”

“I don’t know. _Is_ it working?”

Ondolemar couldn’t decide if he was livid with this human’s insolence, or intrigued by wherever this was going. So presumptuous, but so confident; was this a mortal man, or Clavicus Vile in disguise? He wasn’t certain what face he ought to make at him, but it worked itself out as a haughty sneer. “Fine. You wish to curry my favor by doing my bidding? You wish to subjugate yourself to me, your superior in status and species--?”

“Wow, listen to you. Dirty talk, and we haven’t even cracked into this wine yet--”

“There is something I can have you do. A small task, too menial and simple for myself, but fitting for one so inclined to trespassing and meddling as you. In town, there is a citizen, Ogmund the Skald. I know for a fact he is a Talos worshipper, but the jarl bars me and my agents from intervening. Find in his home some evidence of his heresy, and bring it to me so that I can finally deal with him properly.”

For a moment, Zeno actually went still. Pensive, even. His eyes fell on the wall opposite his seat, where he seemed to be looking for something in the flickering of the sconces.

Then, breaking from his reverie with a sudden snap of his fingers, he said, “Very well. Consider it done,” and left without any further ado.

Ondolemar drank a goblet of the wine Zeno set out as he waited. He corked what remained only after he determined the foolish little human wouldn’t be back that evening.

~~~

It took two entire days for Zeno to return from a mission that should’ve taken a couple hours at most. “I got distracted,” Zeno explained with a shrug. Not the first nor the last time he offered nothing when Ondolemar sorely wished for an actual answer. “But, do you really care? What is time to a century-old Altmer, huh? All that actually matters are --” and he paused dramatically to pull out a treasure from his beaten up pack, “-- _results!_ ”

With runes of Skald bards along the cord on either side of the tell-tale amulet of Talos, there was no denying the blasphemous symbol or who it belonged to. It was perfect evidence in every way.

“I’m impressed,” Ondolemar began to say. But as he held out his hand for it, Zeno reached out as well, but further, past the Justiciar’s waiting hands and upwards to fasten the amulet around Ondolemar’s own neck.

“So am I. You have fine taste. It’s a lovely pendant, indeed. A bit wasted on that old bard, I think. You were right to ask for it.”

A peculiar human if Ondolemar ever met one. “Your attempts at humor are wasted. This is but a foolish token of an uncivilized cult.”

“Or you could just say ‘thank you.’”

~~~

By now, Ondolemar knew Zeno better than most humans. The Nords and Bretons and Reachmen all distrusted the Thalmor in the Reach, even those who were supposedly in support of the Empire and unknowing to the quiet hostilities still burning beneath the surface. Not many men bothered to seek Ondolemar out for anything less than official business.

But Zeno found his way into Ondolemar’s office several times, always managing to sneak past his retinue and any Markarth guards. It was made immediately clear how easily Zeno could do him harm, if he so chose. Surely if he were an assassin for the other side, Ondolemar would have been long dead.

Perhaps, being a defector from the legion, his loyalties lied with his superior elven masters?

Smart boy, and the longer Ondolemar considered it, the more likely it seemed.

So Ondolemar was only pleasantly surprised, and not at all suspicious, to see a certain Imperial making his rounds at a certain gala at a certain embassy. Apparently, Zeno had been making friends with other Thalmor in the order and not just Ondolemar, if he was trusted enough to be welcomed into the embassy. Interesting that he hadn’t seen Zeno mentioned in any of his Justiciar’s reports, but it stood to reason; Ondolemar told no one of the assistance Zeno provided in the matter with Ogmund, and surely no other proud Thalmor agents would admit to having been similarly helped by a rogue Imperial.

Zeno must be a sort of unofficial agent, Ondolemar reasoned. He knew the others attending the party well enough, Thalmor and allied humans alike, as evidenced by his socializing with nearly everyone in the room. Such an arrangement explained his periodic visits in Understone Keep, as well.

A few guests were on their second, third drinks. The air in the room got hotter, the voices just a little louder, and the sound seemed to echo in the high vaulted ceilings of the main hall into a disorienting cacophony of laughter and gossip. The small ensemble of Bard’s College prodigies stayed playing the same few songs over and over so that it was difficult to tell how much time was passing.

For a few, fleeting moments, Ondolemar was swept up by deja vu, or some sort of nostalgia for the parties he sometimes enjoyed back in Sommerset. The air felt the same. The voices rang in his ears the same. The wine, sweet and heavy on his tongue, tasted like home. Then a heavy Nord accent would cut through the ambience like a dull knife through that thrice-damned fermented mammoth cheese, and he would remember just where he was.

Far from home. Depending on the success of their mission, and the ability of the Imperial forces to take full control of the region, and how long this calm between storms between man and mer lasted, he might be stationed here the rest of his career. He took another drink from a passing tray.

The same tray Zeno happened to step past, taking a goblet of wine as well as he went. Though the room was full of chatter, Ondolemar noticed how oddly silent his steps were. Yes, this one was an agent of stealth. A spy, no doubt, and a useful one for their order. His lack of reputation, and lack of inclusion in Justiciar reports, only spoke to his credit. It was the surest explanation Ondolemar had for him.

“It may surprise you, me being as charming and funny and important as I am, but I think this is the first fancy party I’ve ever been _invited_ to,” Zeno laughed. “I would normally just… walk in? Not that I couldn’t have snuck into this if I wanted to, but it is a novelty to actually show an invitation at the door! I feel so welcome!”

“I’m sure you could have. It is your specialty, being in places you don’t belong.” Snide, but good-humored. For once, he hoped the true intention showed.

“I still am out of place, though, to be sure,” Zeno said. He drew a line around the room with his goblet. “Look at them all. The wealthy, the powerful, the famous. Rest assured, when _I_ become all of those things, I won’t be wasting my time playing nice and diplomatic, sucking up and playing at being someone else’s loyal servant. What wastes…”

Ondolemar’s smile spread. “I didn’t realize you had such vitriol for your own.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started. I’ve got shit to talk about every single person in Tamriel.”

“Is that so?” Ondolemar imagined how much Zeno could have to say; he imagined sitting with him in his office, drinking wine and listening to him tear apart every single man and mer on Mundus, one name at a time, for hours on end. The more he pictured it, the more it seemed like a grand way to spend an evening.

“Don’t look so smug, you’re not exempt,” Zeno said with a smirk.

“And what could you possibly have against me?” said Ondolemar.

Zeno scoffed. “Besides the ‘humans-should-be-slaves’ tirades?”

“If it’s true --”

“Excuse the fuck out of you. See? You’re so rude. And besides that…” Zeno’s face twisted into something wicked and diabolical. Ondolemar felt himself match the expression before he even knew where he was going with it. “You still owe me a favor. How can you expect to be on my good side when you can’t even pay your debts?”

“Oh?” His brows rose. An unexpected turn in the conversation. “So now are you finally collecting? What would you ask of me? I can introduce you to Elenwen, perhaps, commend your service to the Thalmor, vouch for your abilities. Wealth, power, and fame you desire would come to you quickly with her recognition.”

But Zeno gave a shake of his head that brought a bounce to his black curls. “Oh, no. No, no, I don’t give a fuck about her.”

He said that part just a bit too loudly, and despite himself, Ondolemar glanced about the room to make sure no one too important could have heard the insolent remark.

“What I do care about - what’s really going to keep me awake at night, what’s _really_ going to haunt me - is how this is my first legitimate fancy party, and it’s so _boring_. So, Ondolemar, here’s my humble request. I want you to liven this place up. Start a ruckus. Cause some drama. Ruin someone’s marriage, I don’t care. I just want to see this room of boring, arrogant, stupid cowards shaken up over _something_.”

Ondolemar mulled the possibilities over with a sip of his wine. “If it’s intrigue you want, why not make it happen yourself? We both know you’re more than capable of causing a fuss.”

“I think we both know you’re in a better position to get away with something like that!” Zeno said, punctuating the thought with a wink. “And everyone who sees me trying to start something will just know I’m up to something. But you, _you_ don’t have that sort of reputation, do you? If you say something, people are going to take it seriously, right? So. Go destroy someone’s life for me, just like I did for you, and we’ll be even!”

Well, who was he to deny that logic? Ondolemar tended to be professional, a shining example of Altmer demeanor and skill; but that wicked smirk played still on Zeno’s face, and he knew the chance to be complicit in his mayhem would be more satisfying than enjoying the dull chatter of the party.

Were the parties back home really as much fun as he remembered? Was anything as fun as standing in front of colleagues and allies and _lying_ to them all, stirring a mess for no reason at all, embarrassing the guests, and hearing Zeno’s laughter from somewhere in the distance? That laugh pierced through the gasps and exclamations of his audience; had any sound ever sounded so good? His heart beat fast with an adrenaline he hadn’t felt in years.

So pointless and petty, his little disturbance, yet it was the highlight of the night.

Especially since the night took a markedly different turn soon after.

Ondolemar and his retinue were sent out along with the embassy guards to search for whoever infiltrated the base below the main building. Important documents went missing, two prisoners were assisted in escaping, and seven highly-ranked agents were found brutally and mercilessly murdered, three more left barely breathing by a man they described as small, human, and dressed in black and red armor.

Did Zeno betray them, defected against his supposed loyalties for the second time in his life? Or was he never with them at all, truly just playing with them all to his own ends all along?

Whichever the case was, Ondolemar was not surprised by the revelation, only ashamed that a human could so easily fool him.

When it came to writing his report, he picked through his words more carefully, but the picture still painted itself plainly. Ondolemar had been duped. So he spent time detailing how everyone else had been similarly fooled. He focused on the ways in which Zeno ingratiated himself to the Dominion, how he’d served them in a very real and tangible way. Ondolemar was not a fool, he argued; their enemy was just that good.

So intent on the drag of his quill across his parchment, the quick, rhythmic scratches of his report coming together, he heard something else so faint and simply dismissed it as the wind.

No wind blew in Understone Keep.

When Ondolemar set his quill down, and barely lifted his head quizzically, the wind blew again - a soft breathy laugh this time.

If Zeno had been an assassin sent to kill him, Ondolemar would not have lived long enough to see the Imperial’s smug face.

“Was wondering when you’d notice me,” Zeno said. He stood behind Ondolemar’s chair, leaning down to read the report from over Ondolemar’s shoulder. “Mm, like the way you write about me, by the way. So much for man being inferior to the elves, huh?”

“I would do myself no favors to belittle you now, considering.”

“Considering what? Considering you still wear the necklace I gave you?”

Ondolemar’s lips curled in a grimace. “It’s evidence for an investigation of heres--”

“Do you always wear evidence around your neck? Shut the fuck up, Ondolemar. I just came by to let you know, we’re even.”

That made Ondolemar turn around in his seat, green eyes burning, a spell flashing furiously in his hands -- 

The sight of Zeno standing there killed the spell on his palm.

In red and black armor, with a hood pulled over his head and a mask drawn over his face, Zeno wasn’t a mortal man but a shadow given mass and splashed with blood. Ondolemar had never seen such an ensemble before, but he’d read of armor like it in an account by someone soon after found dead.

“Zeno--” he choked.

“Nothing personal. Really. The deal was, I ruin someone’s life for you, you ruin someone’s life for me. Sure, we both had further plans beyond the simple scope of our tasks themselves. But between the two of us, as far as our bargain is concerned? We’re even.”

“You would endanger your life, showing your face to me after all you’ve done, just to say that?” Ondolemar asked.

“Not quite. Bit more to it.” Zeno moved past Ondolemar to seat himself at the edge of the table, and propped one leg up onto the arm of the Thalmor’s chair. “I’ve got some business in Falkreath that’s going to probably take me away from the Blades for a while. You see, they’re not all I’ve got going on and - I’ve got a very rich life, full of interesting hobbies.”

“ _Mmhm_.”

“Saving the world is part of that but, you should know, it’s not all there is. And what happened at the party, it wasn’t all fuck-the-Thalmor, you know?”

It was all Ondolemar could do to glance at the half-written report on the table and glower. Easy enough for him to say, _his_ century-long career with a bright future of respect and power wasn’t put on the line for some petty ploy.

“I had fun. You were hilarious. Wish I’d stuck around longer to see more.”

“I do not appreciate being anyone’s tool,” Ondolemar hissed.

And Zeno, he just smiled wider. “Those black robes say something different. That report you’re writing, too. What would you be without the Dominion? If you think Talos is false idolatry, do I have a thing or two to tell you about you and your Aldmeri--”

“I have a report to write because of you, so if you’re just here to be a pest--”

“Ugh! Fine! I brought a bottle of wine!” Zeno rolled his eyes and pulled the pack on his shoulder over to his front to begin digging through it. “I wanted to hear all the details of what you said at the party. I missed the second half of it, so.” He placed the bottle down heavily, directly over top of the still-wet ink of Ondolemar’s parchment. “And I thought I’d tell you a thing or two about some of your allies. Some leverage to get you back on top where you belong.”

A beat passed. The wine was a good year, from a vineyard in Highrock even the Altmeri connoisseurs respected. “And that is a fair trade to you? Half a story that you were mostly there for, in exchange for meaningful blackmail against my own peers? Or will I owe you another favor?”

Zeno’s grin already nearly took in his ears, but now, _now_ that smile crinkled his nose in the diabolical way that always made Ondolemar shake his head and remind himself that this was just a lowly human.

“I didn’t have anything in particular in mind, but I’m sure I can think of a favor or two you could do for me by the bottom of this bottle!”

_Just a human. A lowly, inferior human--!_

~~~

No one ever got to know when Zeno came to town. He arrived on the wind, silently, stirring up chaos or staying hidden in the shadows, unpredictable in the degree or manner of strife he would bring with him.

Now and again, Ondolemar noted the guards discussing mysterious murders timed right before or after Zeno’s visits to his private quarters. Other times, he would note that the Justiciars he sent to patrol around the temple to Talos would inconveniently fall to their deaths, seemingly by accident, when he happened to know Zeno was in Markarth.

Ondolemar started having his people listening more intently for rumors that otherwise wouldn’t be of interest to their order; people showing up in the Silver Blood Inn, men in clothes that hid black armor beneath, an Imperial male with dagger on his belt sporting a black-gemmed pommel. Perhaps it would have, technically, been of interest if he ever reported or acted on his knowledge that this man was the Dragonborn as written in the Elder Scrolls, but instead he insisted it was just a general safety concern.

When the rumors came back to him that Zeno had been spotted within the Reach, Ondolemar made sure he had a good wine on hand, and that patrols up at the temple stopped for a few days.

He expected blood on the young man’s knuckles, maybe some red still leaking from the sheath of his dagger. He expected a wicked smile, a sharp laugh in the dark, more of that cruel and cold and inexplicably charming demeanor.

But not this. So many thing he might’ve expected, but not this.

When Zeno next appeared to him, it wasn’t quietly. It wasn’t sneaky. It wasn’t a sudden appearance in the shadows, like he’d been there all day waiting. It was disturbingly…

Ondolemar hated the word, hated it applied to Zeno, hated the way it sent a shiver down his spine even to think it.

_Vulnerable._

Zeno showed himself in, right through the front doors.Didn’t care who saw, didn’t care who knew he was there, didn’t care that for once, he looked less like a charming prince from a Cyrodiilic fairytale and more like a wretch crawled out of a gutter.

“By Auri-El, what happened to you?” Ondolemar choked. He waved his retinue out of the room, and walked on his bodyguard’s heels to usher them out. As he slammed the doors shut, Zeno dropped onto a chair heavily, graceless as Ondolemar had ever seen him. “You look like you haven’t slept or bathed in a week! Did you just walk into town like this? Stay here for now, I’ll have a bath and meal prepared. You can stay here in Underst--”

Zeno shook his head. He looked ill, with a grey pallor to his tawny skin, his black eyes sunken and dull, black curls untended and unclean. He reached into his pack, an old leather thing mottled with stains and burns and blood, and pulled forth two things. The first, a book bound in a patchwork of flesh. The second was a long tube of gold, shining and pristine. A scroll.

“You know what Talos is,” he said.

“I know that he is a false god, a human who has been the false object of a primitive cult.”

“No. More than what he is to humans. You know about what he is to Mundus. You know about the Towers. You know… That’s why you’re here.”

“What in Oblivion are you talking about?” Ondolemar was too shocked to inflect believably and he knew it. It came out as a breath, like Zeno’s punched him in the sternum and knocked the wind from his lungs.

“The Thalmor. Landfall. Don’t play dumb with me, Ondolemar. Not with me.”

“Who told you this?” Ondolemar never thought he’d discuss this out loud, to anyone but the highest officials of the Aldmeri Dominion. If someone leaked this information to him, it had to be someone important, and it would be devastating to their mission if it went further. “Was it Lovicano? The man raves on about nothing, you _know_ that.”

“Hermaeus Mora.”

Before he’d recovered from the first surprise, he was already reeling again. He leaned back against the door. “Why, why would you--?!”

“I had to ask. I was there to learn to read the Elder Scroll. So I could fight Alduin. But I wanted to understand everything else going on, why it was happening. I wanted to know what it meant that my soul is different. How different? And Hermaeus Mora… it told me. It answered all my questions. I haven’t slept since, I _can’t sleep_. I can’t tell if I’m awake right now, or if I can’t sleep because I’m already dreaming -- of course I’m dreaming, that’s the point, that’s all there is -- _am I even here?_ ”

Ondolemar stepped from the door, moving to Zeno’s side with an urgency that didn’t befit the cool composure of a Thalmor of his station. “You’re incoherent. If what you say is true, and you’re not just exhausted, dehydrated, and starving, then Hermaeus Mora has inflicted an illness upon your mind. Stop trying to make sense of it, or you might hurt yourself.” He knelt in front of Zeno to look him in the eyes, and pried the scroll and book from his hands to set them irreverently on the stone floor.

“Am I wrong?”

Lying came so easy to Ondolemar, with a lifetime of practice in twisting his words, leaving out all the important details. “Your small human mind was never meant to conceive of such questions, let alone receive the answers.” It was always easier to skirt the issue than tell the truth.

“ _Fuck off_ , Ondolemar. Just answer me.”

“Talos… is not a true god, and I stand by that. But he is other things. He has mantled to the domain of the hated Lorkhan. He is a Tower to Mundus. And for the Altmer to regain their stolen godhood, he must be destroyed, starting with his worship.” By the Eight, he said it out loud. To a human. To an enemy of his order.

Zeno cracked a smile, and it made Ondolemar bite back a wince. This wasn’t the smile he wanted. This wasn’t the smile he waited for Zeno to come back to Markarth for. “And me? What am I?”

“If Lovicano is to be believed… Shezzarine.”

He nodded. Gods, he looked so defeated. So broken. So tired. Ondolemar never imagined the sight would make him ache so. “I always knew that, in a way, before it was laid right out for me. It wasn’t a surprise when it told me. I’ve always known it would be my calling to protect this world, to do something great. And I thought the greatest threat it had was Alduin. But no. It’s _you_.” He laughed, a small, pained sound that twisted the proverbial knife in Ondolemar’s chest. “You’ve put me in a real shitty situation, you know that?”

His knees hurt; he hadn’t knelt like this for any length of time in decades. To lower himself so was far beneath his station. He shifted, but did not raise himself. “Knowing who and what you are, I have done nothing to impede your quest. I could have had you imprisoned, taken back to Elenwen to answer for your treachery. I could have subdued you, killed you even, for your meddling, and the threat you pose to our order, or the heresy you represent if you are, in fact, Shezzarine. I have done no such thing.”

“Because it’s going to be a lot harder to destroy the world if Alduin eats the world and sets you back to square one, right?” Zeno hissed. “I don’t know why you Thalmor aren’t actively _helping_ me! You’ll lose, _again_ , just like you have every other kalpa if Alduin ends it. And I... “ He swallowed hard. His face flinched, like he’d been struck by the words not even left his lips. “I won’t help you. I won’t stop Alduin, because saving the world from him means giving you fuckers more time for your own plans. I’m going to let time be reset so you can start your plotting and wickedness from the beginning, _again_.”

And Ondolemar couldn’t tell Zeno to reconsider. He couldn’t tell him that he was _wrong._ Each time he formulated a response, something for Zeno to consider or be comforted by, it fell dead on his tongue before he could punish the man by uttering it.

He’d be a fool to trust any mere words to ease Zeno’s troubled mind or broken heart, and quickly gave up wracking his brain for a solution. Instead, he knelt before him, holding him through his misery, cursing fate that their destinies could be so at odds.

~~~

“Another dragon has been spotted to the north, the second in the Reach so far in Second Seed,” Psymia said. She indicated a general space on the map. “It’s mostly been seen over wilderness. But it has been causing a distraction and some casualties to the nearby Imperial camp, and that has given a contingent of Stormcloaks the opportunity to invade the region. They have a camp just slightly further northeast, and Imperial scouts are concerned they may be the first of a larger force meaning to take the region.”

Psymia had features sharp enough to slice parchment cleanly, including a nose with so defined a bridge it might’ve been honed on a whetstone. Her company was a delight when she chose for it to be: most of the time, she was too polite, too focused, too professional; and some of the time, in those rare, precious occasions, she was a vindictive gossip with brutal blackmail and petty observations.

The pin in the map set across the table cast dancing little shadows across the landscape, courtesy of the flickering flames in the goat horn lanterns set around the room. Ondolemar caught his attention waning yet again, blinked, and pinched the bridge of his nose hard. “Legate Admand, I cannot send Thalmor reinforcements until you have sent your own to take care of this first.”

“With Fort Sungard taken by Forsworn, most of my men are what’s left in Markarth,” Admand argued. Because but of _course_ he would argue. “The city is on the brink as it is, and the surrounding hills are overflowing with Forsworn. It would be mad to send the few peacekeepers we have left to be killed by a dragon! We should send for help from Castle Dour.”

Ondolemar felt his eyes roll beneath his closed lids. “Very well. Do that,” he conceded. “And when you never get word back because your messenger was set on fire and eaten by the dragon directly between here and Solitude, do as I say and send your own men.”

No matter what, people would die. Humans. Imperial Legion warriors, sworn to defend a farce of an empire in its death throes. Their empire only existed because the Thalmor allowed it, and rest assured, it would not be allowed much longer. Life or death scenarios, as it concerned them, largely left Ondolemar profoundly bored, moreso lately than usual.

Nothing steals away boredom like a man in armor barrelling into the room, breathless and shaking.

First thought in Ondolemar’s head was, damn their luck, Markarth itself was under attack by a dragon! He stood, magic already laced between his fingertips for a stoneflesh spell, ready to join whatever battle was already happening outside.

“News! from Solitude!” the messenger gasped

Oh. Not a dragon then, and, more interestingly, the dragon of their previous conversation hadn’t killed this particular messenger. Good to know; perhaps sending word back up to Solitude would work after all.

Bored once more, Ondolemar settled back into his seat. “What now?”

His question was lost beneath Legate Admand shouting with an urgency Ondolemar couldn’t have been troubled to fake, “What is it? Has Solitude fallen?”

“No, but take no comfort. Emperor Titus Mede the Second has been assassinated!” their guest cried.

Ondolemar’s lips pursed. The Empire belonged to the Thalmor. It existed out of convenience and usefulness rather than mercy. And this Emperor had longer been a thorn in their collective side than a proper tool. Under his rule, the Great War lasted far longer than it needed to, and despite the Aldmeri Dominion’s assured victory from the start, his stubbornness and his wicked play in the Battle of The Red Ring resulted in many more Altmer deaths than should have been necessary. Ondolemar, who’d fought in that war and lost peers and companions -- his beloved Solinar, who he hadn’t even thought of in years until _now_ \-- in that battle, never really forgave Mede after he finally conceded and signed treaty. To hear of his death now… How to describe the feeling?

Not quite numb, but unsure, caught between relief to be rid of the man, annoyed to be out an important pawn, vexation at the failure of security, concern that the Emperor would not be the final target if this was a Stormcloak plot… Her bent forward in his chair, slouching in a way he never would before an audience, and brought one long hand to his chin to scratch at the pale patch of beard there. “Does the Jarl know?”

“Aye,” he answered, still breathless.

“Psymia, Iriel, please prepare correspondence to the Justiciars we have out in the province. Ensure that they are briefed on the situation, and know that it will not affect their missions unless or until we are instructed otherwise by Emissary Elenwen.” He waved his hand to dismiss them.

They left the room only inches ahead of the messenger and Legate Admand, on his way to pass the Emperor’s grim fate along to his men. Which left Ondolemar to his thoughts, and that strange non-grief to sort out.

Elenwen must be stamping her feet right now. The title would be passed quickly, and hopefully to a more cooperative or easily-manipulated Emperor, but for now it would surely be a bother to deal with the succession and all the politicking that comes with it. Sometimes she enjoyed the drama, the spectacle, but never when it made her job more difficult.

When was his next visit to the Embassy? End of Mid Year? Would her temper be cooled by then, or should he start piecing together a good reason to cancel now?

Ondolemar rubbed the bridge of his nose again. His head was starting to ache.

He would write to Elenwen later. For now, he glowered down at the map, and considered the little pins and flags across it. With the room empty, the province itself seemed calmer. The space between pins seemed wider, the danger of battle further. The little pawns representing armies, the Empire’s own and the movements scouts observed of their enemies, looked especially small, especially pointless. The civil war here in Skyrim was a child’s game compared to the Great War. The little missions of his Justiciars paled in comparison to the necessity and purpose he had in the years of real war and conflict.

 _Everything_ felt small and pointless. Emperor Titus Mede II was dead. The Battle of the Red Ring, the only real instance of loss Ondolemar ever tasted, was long over. This province, wide and sprawling with mountains and forests and plains and cliffs and lakes felt… stifling.

Alone with his thoughts, he lost track of time. His subordinates would be busy with writing orders to agents all night.

When the door opened again, in another hurried burst that could have sent it off its hinges, Ondolemar expected to see Legate Admand returned to begin planning some defense against whatever Stormcloak spies were behind the assassination -- as if Stormcloaks would sink to assassination, and as if they were in any position to defend anything in their weakened and isolated state in the Reach.

Ondolemar had a cutting remark ready for the Legate when he looked up from the map, and it was stolen from his the instant he took in the new guest.

Not Legate Admand. Of course not. But a herald of death, a born assassin if Ondolemar had ever met one. He didn’t need to ask. Seeing Zeno Valus in the doorway answered instantly the question Ondolemar hadn’t even gotten around to asking himself. He felt a pang of shame that he hadn’t been expecting this visit all along.

“Ondolemar! Ondolemar, we need to talk, _now!_ ” Zeno said. He slammed the door behind him, and the whole stone room echoed like a bell. It’d been a while since he’d entered Understone Keep, or Ondolemar’s immediate presence, silently or stealthily, Ondolemar noted.

“I already know about the Emperor,” Ondolemar assured him.

Zeno opened his mouth, but stopped short, pulling away with a baffled twist of his face. “I--? What? The Emperor--? Er, yeah, I knew about that, I’m the one who killed him. I don’t care, it doesn’t matter. I’m here about something far more important!”

“More important than the murder of your Emper--?”

“Shut up! Listen to me!” He leapt to Ondolemar’s side and snatched him by the shoulders of his robes, yanking him to his feet. A smile, wide and bright and _honest_ as Ondolemar had ever seen it, spread across the Listener’s face. “It’s my sister! She’s in Skyrim! She’s here!”

Now it was Ondolemar’s turn to scrunch his eyes in confusion. “Yes. Obviously. What about it?”

“What do you mean, ‘what about it’? This changes everything! She’s here!”

“Yes, she -- Wait, have you not _known_ , Zeno? _Everyone_ knows. I’ve _told_ you, Justiciar Zenotha and Lovicano have been following her for months!”

“No, you _didn’t_ tell me! What the fuck?!”

“I’m positive that I did--”

“Whatever! Shut up! I have a point here!” Zeno blinked a few times and, giving up on that, lifted his face upward to stare at the ceiling. He held that pose, and his breath, for a few moments before turning back to Ondolemar with a renewed clarity and hope. “This changes everything. Everything I said and decided before. Everything.”

Zeno’s hands were still on Ondolemar’s shoulders, so he placed his own on Zeno’s ribs. “What are you talking about? You don’t mean--?”

“She’s here. She must know I’m the Dragonborn. And she must know Alduin endangers our world as we know it. And I can’t let her down. I can’t let her see me be the hero she always told me I would be, and just _let her down_ when it matters the most, Ondolemar. I’m going to protect her. From dragons, from dragon priests, from anything and everything that would hurt her or the world she lives in.” He steeled, turned rigid beneath Ondolemar’s hands. His muscles coiled as if he was about to burst into action, about to go to battle right then, about to kill Ondolemar and everyone in the keep. “Dragons. Thalmor. Anyone and everyone. I am the Dragonborn, I am Shezzarine, and I _will be_ mantled to Talos, and I will _not_ let my Mundus, my Tamriel, or my _sister_ down.”

That declaration was heresy at best, a direct threat to be taken far deeper than face value at worst. And Ondolemar, a devoted agent of the Aldmeri Dominion, a lifelong loyalist to his order, ought to have responded as such. But his arms moved before the Altmer blood in his veins could cry, “Traitor!” and pulled Zeno into an embrace.

Rather than accost Zeno for his foolish, dangerous words, he uttered something that would cut like knives across his lips, something that would shake the foundations of his loyalties and his beliefs, because in his heart he knew them to be true.

_“I know.”_

~~~

Altmer were superior beings. This was not a debate, this was not an opinion, this was a simple fact. Descended from the Et’Ada, gods by birthright, they were so much more than any other mortal race.

And the Aldmeri Dominion was a superior government. The Empire was dissolving, its leaders dead or impotent. Skyrim was at war and too divided amongst itself to be any sort of threat, or even self-sustaining, and would remain so as long as the Thalmor had any say in the matter. High Rock was a mess of politics and spies, Hammerfell would take years to recover from their extended conflict with the Thalmor, Morrowind was buried under ash without its gods, and Black March and its Hist were uninterested and uninvolved in the world beyond the reach of its roots.

To deny these facts was to deny reality.

And yet, the implications tugged on Ondolemar’s heartstrings, like a stray thread on a garment that caught on a sliver of wood and proceeded to unravel the whole thing. Victory of the Thalmor would mean the destruction of all others. The destruction of Zeno and his sister and any other surviving Valuses. The destruction of Talos, to whom Zeno was now certain he shared the spark of Lorkhan the betrayer’s soul with. The destruction of everything else but the most superior people of the most superior order.

How could that paradise, the promise of godhood, suddenly sound so empty?

Zeno’s visits were infrequent, but he made a point to at least make his presence known every time he came into Markarth. His business with the dragons didn’t often lead him so far from the heart of Skyrim, and his search for Brina kept him mostly concerned with the eastern half of the province as well, but she had friends here in the west that Zeno managed to track down, who he approached for assistance in his search. Whether or not it yielded results, Ondolemar could not tell, but Zeno was confident, his determination unwavering, and that was enough for him.

Spies arrived some time after that visit to inform Ondolemar that Lovicano, captured by Stormcloaks near Whiterun and imprisoned there since, was suddenly and violently killed. When asked if they should investigate, Ondolemar dismissed them and assigned them new tasks. Just like the Emperor, he knew precisely who was behind this.

Later, Justiciar Zenotha sent a report that her most recent attempt to capture Brina Valus failed. Her journal had been located briefly, then lost. Zenotha suspected the Dark Brotherhood was somehow involved, but she could not determine their stake in the affair. Ondolemar instructed her to investigate other possibilities. She was right, of course, but he didn’t want her getting close on the impossibly slim chance she might succeed in confirming her suspicions, and all the truth entailed.

He followed the rumors, tracked Zeno’s travels as he heard of them, and waited intently for any indication he was back in the Reach again. When he returned once more, Ondolemar was ready for him.

But no trespassers appeared in his quarters. A break in the routine.

Maybe he ought to have been relieved that Zeno wasn’t bothering him this time. Maybe he should count his blessings that this was one less opportunity to get mixed up in the Dragonborn’s quest, one less reason to betray the Aldmeri Dominion by playing favorites with a human.

But that didn’t suit Ondolemar at all. He’d been lying to his order for Zeno, after all, misleading his own agents and playing a dangerous game of lies and secrets with his superiors. The least Zeno could do was visit.

He set out into Markarth at dawn. Fog rolled down from the mountains above and around the city, and the haze would get trapped in the city walls like steam caught in a cauldron. Stepping out of the city walls, something Ondolemar only ever did for rare visits to the embassy, was a breath of fresh air, and a sudden burst of clarity.

Immediately outside the city, the fog was burned away by unimpeded sunlight to the east. Morning bathed the mountainsides in yellow light, and the cliffs and peaks reflected it back as shining gold. Ondolemar’s eyes flinched shut against the sudden brightness of the outside world. Sometimes he forgot how beautiful Skyrim was, outside the Nord-infested, vermin-filled cities.

Travelers and townsfolk coming into and out of the city gave him wide berth. In black hooded robes, he must have looked like a reaper to them, or some other similarly ominous harbinger of doom. Many would die before trusting a Thalmor. Many of their kinsmen, their family, their neighbors already had. And for a short-lived race, those crimes were still recent history, and their memories were long.

“Ondolemar.”

The man he’d been waiting for, and yet, he felt a start as he was addressed. “Zeno. Did you really think you could come into the Reach without my knowing?”

He wore plain, but expensive clothes that almost completely concealed the telltale red and black leather armor he wore beneath. Though Ondolemar knew what that armor was, what it meant, it had become a comfort to see. Less and less did he recognize it as Dark Brotherhood leathers, until now it was just part of Zeno. He laughed. “I used to all the time! I could sneak into your chambers, your office, the Jarl’s private rooms, anywhere without being spotted! I don’t know how you ever wised up to me! So, any reason you’re waiting for me out here, or did you just want to be the one to ambush me for once? Maybe you wanted one last glimpse of my pretty face, hm?”

The jester at his side hummed something under his breath, eyes intent on Ondolemar. A strange choice of companions, to be sure, but Ondolemar had seen the type before. The faded ensemble of crimson and black to match Zeno’s armor was explaination enough. Ondolemar cleared his throat and said, “Last? Are you leaving Skyrim?”

“Uh, no, not exactly. I have to get to the Rift. My good friend here in Markarth just tipped me off to Sister’s whereabouts. Turns out, she’s back in Riften, and likely to stay put there long enough for me to retrieve her. She’s mixed up in that damn thieves guild again. So Ciero and I are on our way to get her back. And then... Well... shit.”

“What?”

“I’m going to do it. As soon as I have her, I’m going to… I’m going to fulfill my prophecy. I’m going to defeat Alduin. Which I intend to survive, of course, but in case I don’t, this would be goodbye. And if I live, which is the plan, I suppose instead, this gets to be a warning.” That smile, that wicked smile that crinkled at his nose, that unraveled Ondolemar’s heart in his chest, was back in all its glory. “Once I kill Alduin, the Thalmor are next on my list. Are you ready to be my enemy, Justiciar?”

After a beat, Ondolemar chuckled helplessly. “My dear Zeno, I’ve seen what happens to anyone who makes themselves a mere inconvenience to you, let alone an actual enemy. You should know by now, I am smart enough to avoid such a fate for myself.”

“Good.” Zeno clapped a hand on Ondolemar’s shoulder, right where it met his neck. He had to reach to hold him so high. “Then I know I can call on you again, after I’ve slain Alduin? I may have need of a friend on the inside.”

Without realizing he’d said it, the answer spoke itself from his traitor mouth: “Of course.”

~~~

First, they heard that the Stormcloak-held Whiterun captured a dragon at the behest and with the help of the Dragonborn and his sister. Then, reports came in that the dragon flew them -- _flew them!_ \-- to fight Alduin.

Then silence. No reports. No news. Ondolemar paced grooves into the stone floors of Understone Keep waiting for anything from anyone, dossieres from his agents or Imperial scouts or even just idle gossip -- anything! The silence left his nerves in shambles.

The last time he’d felt like this was waiting to hear whether or not Solinar survived the battle of the Red Ring. And then, when he finally learned of his fate -- 

He stopped in his circuit around the keep every time that thought came to him, scratching the floor with each sudden pause as it happened. He had to stop, had to breathe, had to remind himself that Zeno, while human, would not be killed so easily by men, or dragons, or anything else.

He had to believe that.

He was lost in such a reverie when Psymia ran, full-sprint, into the wide hall. Her long legs brought her up the the stairs three-at-a-time, and Ondolemar ran to meet her at the top, in front of the Jarl’s throne room.

“What is it? What’s happening?” he barked.

And Psymia looked at him with knit brows, unsure whether to be vexed or excited, said, “Dragons have been spotted circling the Throat of the World. And the Grey Beards, they’ve shouted into the sky to be heard as far as Rorikstead, and word spread from there. They say the Dragonborn has defeated Alduin. People are gathering at Ivarstead to see him.”

Ondolemar saluted her, fighting hard to keep his face stoic and rigid. “I understand. We will update orders to the Justiciars on the field--”

“You can be glad, Master Ondolemar,” Psymia cut in. A smile didn’t quite fit on her sharp face, but she tried for it anyway, perhaps the most personable and friendly expression ever attempted on it. “I know you love him.”

He coughed once. “Very well. Do the others?” Why didn’t he just deny it?!

“No, sir.”

“We will keep it that way, or I will destroy you, do you understand?”

“I know you could, which is why I’ve never interfered before.”

“Very good. So, instead, I will write a letter. You will take it toward Ivarstead, or wherever you can intercept the Valuses. You will tell no one of this mission. Do you understand?”

Psymia finally gave up on the disconcerting attempt at a smile smile, thank Auriel, but her salute had more sincerity than sarcasm this time, which he’d never quite realized until now had been the standard. “Yes, sir.”

Two weeks later, they’d heard more from the east. The Dragonslayers, as they were now known, descended from High Hrothgar after some time spent recovering from their legendary battle with Alduin. Some said they went to battle at an old and forgotten tomb in the heart of the Velothi Mountains. Others said they went to Sovngard itself.

The prevailing word was, however, that they went to both, that the battle took them from one plane to another, that it stretched across time and space and existence and -- and that, most importantly of all, they _survived_ , and were both seen and accounted for and confirmed _alive_ when they came down from the Throat of the World hand-in-hand.

Ivarstead was filled with people awaiting them. Companions, mages, nobility and common folk, and a single Thalmor agent filled Ivarstead in a grand hero’s welcome, and the entire village became the host of a wild celebration like only the Nords could throw.

Psymia approached them shortly after they left Ivarstead. She handed off the letter as she was instructed, and was assured by Zeno that they didn’t need any convincing to go to Markarth. They were headed in that direction, but they were planning on making some detours along the way.

“He said,” Psymia would report upon her return, “‘we’re on our way, but tell Ondolemar not to wait up. My sister and I have a lot of catching up to do.’”

Word spread of their adventures. Barrows explored, bandit dens confronted, caves cleared, dragon priests defeated. By the time they made it back to Markarth, their reputation had somehow grown, as if there was greater fame to be earned than saving the world!

And with any and every subsequent visit, they returned more revered, and more powerful.

~~~

“You know, I only came to Understone Keep to clear up that misunderstanding with the guards, not for all this. I had plans with the Kaljus, and now I’m going to be late,” Zeno complained as he swung his legs back over the side of Ondolemar’s stone bed.

“First of all, you have nothing to complain about. _I_ am the one with an actual job and responsibilities. Your visit has severely cut into my schedule for the day. And second, there was no _misunderstanding_ and you know it.”

“Yeah, well, if Argis didn’t want me to break his legs, he shouldn’t have hurt my sister’s feelings.” A defense that wouldn’t hold water with the guards for anyone but him. “It’s not her fault she’s not good at knowing the nature of her relationships. It’s just sort of her thing, you know, she gets involved and doesn’t know how seriously, or not seriously, the other person is about it. She has other shit to think about.”

Ondolemar paused in pulling his shirt over his head for just a beat, and held back a groan. “I only _imagine_ how frustrating that must be for the men she gets involved with.”

“They should be more direct, then,” Zeno quipped, pulling the Dark Brotherhood leathers back over his bare legs.

 _Point,_ Ondolemar thought, without taking the advice much to heart. What good could it possibly do at this point, really? “Be on your way, then, and see how far that explanation gets you with the law.”

“What are they going to do? Try and _arrest me_?” Zeno laughed outright, pulling his clothes over his armor even as he cross the room and opened the door, ignoring Ondolemar’s half-dressed protests . “They could sentence me to a single hour in Cidhna Mine, I’ll kill every guard in the city before they could make me go. So, ah, with that in mind, best keep low for a bit, if you start hearing shouts.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ondolemar said, helplessly holding the uppermost layer of his uniform over himself defensively, in case someone happened past the door Zeno held open wide. Zeno was a casual man about sex. He’d always flirted with the Altmer, and when Ondolemar once decided to take it further, he was met with no question or hesitance whatsoever. And since then, the arrangement was clear, but unspoken, much like he knew it to be with Zeno’s other many affairs across Tamriel.

Ondolemar, at least, had the satisfaction of knowing that he was the most superior of all Zeno’s dalliances. He had the privilege of being tangibly useful as an ally and resource to the Valuses, and was certain he was the most attractive, well-bred, and powerful object of Zeno’s ever-noncommittal attention. 

“Get that bounty of yours taken care of, but do not forget to come back before you leave Markarth again. I’ll have the updated locations and patrols of Justiciars. You’re heading to Solitude next, correct?”

“Yeah,” Zeno said. He leaned against the open doorframe. “Then to Dawnstar. I’ve got some family business to finish up there, and then it’s off to Windhelm to meet Ulfric, finally.”

“Very good. I’ll make sure my agents stay out of your way through your travels, and have their positions recorded for your reference otherwise.”

“Ah, Ondolemar!” he sighed as he swayed out the door. As it swung shut, he heard Zeno sing, “Always so good to me!”

~~~

Not good enough this time. His attempts to protect Zeno from Zenotha and, indeed, other Thalmor agents had finally failed. After years of keeping Zeno just barely out of their grasp, they succeeded in his capture.

Ondolemar could at least take heart that Brina was spared, but now he wondered if this was the end of the line for her as well.

He stayed back from the rest, even putting distance between himself and the Imperial soldiers escorting them. He wanted a good vantage point to be able to hit them all with spells in turn, in case this charade didn’t hold.

Brina Valus was toward the front, walking beside the scout who held Thrynn. The thief left a trail of red in the snow behind them, drawing panicked coos and pleas from the Dragonslayer. She tried to keep healing him as they walked, but judging by the worried whimpers she kept making, was having little luck of it.

Eha stayed close to Brina, but kept glancing back over her shoulder. Dressed head to toe in Nord steel and Stormcloak blue, the fact that they assumed her ensemble was a disguise was perhaps their greatest, and only stroke of luck.

“I’m surprised you would be sent so far from Markarth,” the scout nearest to him, Matus, said. “I understood that you mostly remained stationed there.”

“I’d been asking for some time out of Understone Keep,” Ondolemar explained. “The Reach has never suited me, and there is much to do in regards to the civil war, now that it is escalating once more.”

“Aye, well, we’re pleased to have a mer of your reputation on our side. Don’t mind it if you get looks when we make it to camp, though, please. Not everyone in the legion is quite as comfortable with Thalmor, but we’ll make sure you’re still treated with respect, and most importantly, back on your way quickly.”

“I should hope so,” Ondolemar hissed. They couldn’t afford to be slowed down for long.

 _Zeno_ couldn’t afford for them to be slowed down for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Why is Ondolemar suddenly against the Aldmeri Dominion?" Because he loves his evil bf, shut up.
> 
> Anyhoo, thank you to everyone who's left kudos and comments!! They feed me and sustain me to the next chapter!


	12. Small Pearl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When surrounded by enemies, sometimes all you can do is grin, bear it, and pretend that they're your friends until an opportunity presents itself.

Brina swallowed hard as she stomped through the snow, following the tamped-down white where the scouts had walked on their way out from camp earlier.

If word spread that Ondolemar defected, they were done. If Eha, a Stormcloak war hero, was correctly identified, they were done. If Brina, a celebrity in her own right, was recognized for who she was, they were done.

Thrynn’s arm fell limp from the scout’s grasp; Brina caught his hand, and held the frozen digits in her own. By the Eight and Talos, she had to think of something…!

“Ondolemar?” she said, turning back to the High Elf trailing at the back of the party. “Could I have a word?” She cast a meaningful look at the fallen thief. “A-about Thrynn?”

He nodded slowly, and Brina scurried her way to him, dabbing at her eyes and fussing her hands on her sleeves as she went. Matus, already a few strides away from Ondolemar’s general aura of frustration, gave them even more space when he processed the look of deepening distress on her face, and moved to the front of the pack to observe the wounded party himself.

“Has he died?” Ondolemar asked. “He didn’t seem well, but I’d seen humans suffer worse and survive.”

“No, not yet. I think as long as we can get him to a fire and I can focus, I’ll be able to heal him just fine.”

His brows knit. “Then what are you--?”

“I’m going to tell them who I am, as soon as we get to their camp. I want you to know so there are no surprises.”

“What in Auri-El’s name--” Ondolemar stopped short and continued, in a whisper, “--do you hope to accomplish with that?”

“I don’t want them to figure it out on their own, and they will, considering how many high-profile people our group is made up of. That would be more incriminating, to let them recognize us themselves, they’ll kill us! But if we comply and play along, don’t let them think they’ve been lied to, and I tell them who I am and tell them that I’ve decided to rejoin my Imperial brethren--”

“Then you’ll still be killed. You will be a traitor twice over, and they will be fools to trust you now.”

“I have collateral, though,” she chirped, and she took the pack on her shoulders by the straps to give it a demonstrative shake. The contents jingled joyfully within. “A token of my loyalty.”

Ondolemar pursed his golden lips, his narrow nose flaring. “That _might_ keep them from killing us immediately. But then, they would not let us go on our own. At worst, they will keep us prisoner in their camp until our story can be validated by Castle Dour. At best, they will let us go on our way, but with a contingent of soldiers to answer to when our path veers to the Embassy.”

“Then we ask for that option, and we’ll lose them along the way--”

“Please, tell me you are not truly that stupid.”

“Ugh. Well, I have one other idea, but it’s a stretch.” Brina glanced around, making sure none of the scouts were near enough to hear, and whispered the half-formed planned as quickly as she could.

When she finished, Ondolemar’s face sported at least five new wrinkles. “You know your brother cannot save us from wherever he is.”

She nodded. “That’s true, but my brother’s not the only one who can turn a situation around when outnumbered and outmatched.”

With a wince, Ondolemar conceded. “I suppose it _is_ more of a plan than simply, ‘start a fight with an entire Imperial camp and hope to make it out alive.’”

“‘Not-Completely-Doomed’ is my middle name.” She cleared her throat, then made a show of wiping her hands over her eyes. “I’m going to go back to pretending to be devastated over Thrynn.”

And Ondolemar played into the farce as well, wrapping an arm over her shoulder as she ducked her face into his side. How anything was allowed to get as tall as an Altmer, Brina would never know, but it meant that he was able to cover her entirely in his cloak and make her look especially small and miserable.

And the scouts reacted with pity as anticipated, some coming back to her to offer words of comfort. Camp was close, they had supplies, he lost a lot of blood, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed!

The camp was small, but well-defended. Situated on high ground, tucked in a formation of craggy rocks with cliffs on the northern side of it. This meant it would be hard for enemies to find… or for prisoners to escape.

“Legate!” Matus called ahead of them. He ran ahead of the rest, and vaulted over one of the defensive abatis with the ease and confidence of a deer hopping over a felled log.

Immediately, a Dunmer man dressed in the heavy steel and leather regalia of an Imperial legionnaire stepped out from one of the larger tents.

Matus saluted, but wasted no time in giving his report, to which a few other soldiers around the camp gravitated nearer to hear. “It wasn’t a smuggling ship after all, sir. They’re agents for the Empire. Spies, on a secret mission. They’re led by Justiciar Ondolemar of the Aldmeri Dominion.”

Legate Sevan Telendas gave the whole group a cursory glance, but was ultimately unable to turn his eyes from Ondolemar for long. “An Aldmeri Dominion officer? I haven’t seen nor heard of you justiciars getting involved in these conflicts with the Stormcloaks, save for when they’re ranting about Talos worship, and I’ve certainly not heard of you getting wrist-deep in the shit. What sort of mission took you all the way to Stormcloak territory, and on on a smuggling boat, no less?”

With a wave of her hand, Brina brought Telendas’s eyes just down from Ondolemar to where she was still clinging against his side. “He came to get me. I’m Brina Valus, and I’ve been spying on Ulfric myself.”

Immediately there was a chorus of metal leaving sheaths on the belts of every soldier in the camp, and a wave of warning as Brina reached into her pack, and a single shout of shock and disbelief from Eha when Brina removed the prize for all to see.

She held it high above her head, but the only person she really needed to convince was the Dark Elf right in front of her. “Legate Sevan Telendas, this is the Jagged Crown, and I’m on my way to bring it to the Blue Palace. We need to stop in Dawnstar to meet with some other agents, but first, your scouts promised we could stay here so that I can heal my bodyguard.”

“And stay you shall,” Legate Telendas answered immediately, though his voice was tight with confusion. This was, after all, three unexpected developments in the length of a minute. “I hadn’t received word on any of this--”

“Of course not!” Ondolemar hissed. “If the entire legion knew, Miss Valus’s ploy could not have lasted. And rest assured, our detour here to your camp was not on the itinerary. But a dragon attack and a wounded soldier have left us in an unfortunate position.”

Telendas took in a deep breath, and tapped his gray knuckled to his pointed chin. “The crown… May I?”

Brina handed it over, and swore she heard Eha make a pained sound, but she kept her eyes on the Legate as he turned it to observe the ancient Nordic handiwork from all sides.

“Give me your full report, Justiciar, while your people rest and heal,” Telendas said at a length. “Then, I will send your report forward to be verified,” -- Ondolemar gave Brina a sidelong glance as if to say _I told you that he would_ , “and once we know that this… motley assemblage of an operation is legitimate, you may take some of my scouts to protect you for the remainder of your journey.”

Brina frowned. “We are in a rush…”

“And a hero of the Stormcloak rebellion, betrothed of Ulfric Stormcloak, has just walked into my camp, and asked me to believe her on the merit of a bone-laden crown,” Telendas quipped. He cast a look at Eha, then the bloody mess that was Thrynn in his scout Ulrald’s arms. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, but I’m sure you understand the situation this puts me in.”

“I’m sorry, did you say _betrothed_? How in Oblivion do people know about--?”

Ondolemar put his hand directly over Brina’s face, covering her mouth and nose and all. “That really isn’t the part we’re concerned with, though your indignance does reaffirm my faith in your standards.”

“‘Nd’l’m’r-- C’n’t br’th--”

“Very well, Legate, for the time being, we will accept being your guests,” Ondolemar said over Brina’s halfhearted struggles. “It will give Brina time to see to her guard’s injuries, anyway, as I know she would regret having to leave him behind. Shall I join you in your tent, and I can give you my full report of the mission thus far?”

“Yes. Matus, do you have your scribing tools?” Legate Telendas said.

The scout nodded eagerly and walked with them toward the large tent from which Telendas had previously emerged.

“He’s one of my most trusted scouts,” Telendas assured Ondolemar as they went into the tent together. “He’ll record your report to the letter, and get it to Castle Dour…”

Their voices faded. Brina tried desperately to overhear, but they were lost to her as the remaining scouts and soldiers went back to their business, or otherwise started in assisting their visitors into a tent.

Once a place for Thrynn had been procured, a small tent toward the back corner of the camp, Brina waved Eha over. “Can you help me with his injuries? I could use an assistant!”

Eha stood, still as stone, in the snow. It gathered on her shoulders, like a statue to some ancient warrior.

“Eha, please, he’s really big, it’ll be hard on my own--”

Without a word, she moved, stomping hard through the snow and crawling into the tent with a look brina had seen many times on Olev’s face. They looked like siblings when they were angry, that was for sure. It was hard not to imagine a wide, angry red scar, like an Oblivion Gate opening down the center of her face.

If she could have slammed the tent closed, Brina imagined she would have. And so the moment she followed suit, she was quick to whisper, “I lied! Hey, hey, before you get upset--!”

“I’m already upset! How can I not be upset!”

“I lied! I’m betraying the Stormcloaks! But they were going to notice something was fishy with Ondolemar, or they were going to figure out who one of us was, and I didn’t want to see how they’d react! So I acted first!”

“So what now!” Eha growled, still seething but by all appearances no longer itching to reach across Thrynn’s resting form to sock Brina in the mouth. “We wait for them to verify a mission that doesn’t exist? We let them keep the Jagged Crown -- which was _supposedly_ lost in the battle at Korvanjund!”

“Uh, yeah, about that. It wasn’t lost. Brother just held onto it--”

“For the love of Talos, _why?!_ ”

“Uh… To use as a bargaining chip. Just in case. So, basically, a situation like right now--”

“Shor’s bones, woman! The Jagged Crown is not something to gamble with! It’s not a piece of currency to buy yourself an advantage!”

“Beats being killed on the spot by Imperial Legionnaires, doesn’t it?” Brina offered meekly. “Anyway, not all is lost. I have an idea. But first, we need to get Thrynn healed.”

~~~

Hours passed as Ondolemar fabricated the details of a complex, impeccably orchestrated ruse against the Stormcloaks.

Matus, observing the pages upon pages of notes, found it hard to believe all this had been going on for so many months. The Dragonborn, working with old contacts from his brief time spent in the Imperial Legion back in Cyrodiil, had laid the groundwork. Ondolemar, with his extensive network of Aldmeri Dominion spies, had been able to arrange the transfer of information in and out of Windhelm. And Brina Valus, the Spirit of the Rift as she was called in eastern Skyrim, had captured the hearts of the Stormcloaks and, most notably, Ulfric himself, earning herself and her brother valuable knowledge of Stormcloak strategy and logistics.

And their swift escape from Windhelm? Apparently, Ulfric’s affections had become too much for the still-very-Imperial Brina to keep the charade going against. When he began planning marriage, she realized she wouldn’t likely get another window to escape with the crown, and so wrote to Markarth and implored Ondolemar to escort her personally. Her brother, away on some other task, would join them in Solitude when he could.

It changed everything. It changed what they knew of the state of the war, it changed their future plans, it might even be what would ultimately lead to the end of the war! Matus placed the notes in a tube and wedged it tight in the bandolier across his chest before giving Ondolemar and Legate Telendas a salute.

“I will not rest until I’ve returned with confirmation from General Tullius, and then, I would ask the Legate to let me be part of the escort for you and the rest to your destination in Solitude. Until then, you and Brina Valus and her retainers will be safe here. Right, Legate?”

Telendas saluted back eagerly. “Absolutely. Until we’re clear to send you and Valus to Castle Dour, we will treat you with all the hospitality we can afford here in camp.”

“Very good,” Ondolemar said, a thin smile playing across his golden lips.

Matus didn’t want to delay, didn’t want to daly. A small boat he spotted far in the distance turned into the most exciting part he’d had in this whole war, and could mean the path to victory was in sight! With darkness descended upon the camp, he felt not the slightest tinge of fatigue! He could run all through the night and day after, so high were his spirits, so hopeful were the words scrawled in the scroll tube against his chest!

And in his satchel, the most precious message he’d ever been trusted with: the Jagged Crown itself!

He made one brief stop before he left camp, though. He would regret if he didn’t.

The sound of low-burning fires and quiet conversations filled the camp, but over the din, he heard a sound he’d once been warned of. Like a chime, ringing, but somehow hollow. He’d been warned of sounds like that, that deep in the mountains, it was almost certainly a Wisp Mother.

Or, in this particular case, a very special Alik’r music box that the fabled Spirit of the Rift was known to carry with her.

Matus tapped gently against the tent that’d been vacated for Brina and her retainer. The sound of the music box stopped.

“Yes?”

Matus poked his head in. “Brina Valus. I wanted to bid you farewell, and… and let you know, after hearing Justiciar Ondolemar’s account of your mission… It’ll be an honor to get word to Castle Dour of your escape from Windhelm, and to deliver the crown on your behalf. The only greater honor will be when I return, and get to bring you back to Solitude myself. You’ve done the Empire a great service.”

She was sitting beside the bedroll in the center of the tent, near its head, the discarded music box at her side. The bedroll itself was dominated by a pile of blankets, apparently many beds worth, in attempt to warm the wounded bodyguard she cared for so much. She patted the heavy furs and quilts. “I really appreciate that. Please, be quick. He’ll be healed up within a few days, and when he is, I’d hope we can be on our way.”

With a noncommital shrug that was mostly still outside the tent anyway, Matus chuckled, “I don’t know if I can get to Solitude and back in just a few days, but I’ll give it my all. I hail from there, so I’ll use all the shortcuts and hidden paths I know. Whatever it takes.”

“You’re from Solitude?” She tilted her head his way. “You have an accent like you’re from the Imperial City.”

Matus now scratched at his bare chin sheepishly. “Well, I am Imperial, you’re right. But Solitude was my first home in Skyrim, ten years ago. It feels more like a home than any place in Cyrodiil ever did.”

“I know how you feel.” Her eyes were far away, looking through Matus to a time and place he was not privy to. And yet, while he might not know what moment she was recalling, he knew he had his own formative moment that gave him the same glazed-over, nostalgic look. “Skyrim makes Nords out of all of us.”

“Aye, a truth if I’ve ever heard one.” He saluted, and she nodded politely. “Until I return, be well, Valus.”

She smiled, and by the Eight, Matus’s heart swelled at the sight. “You too, Matus.”

He disappeared from the tent, and Brina could only faintly hear his footsteps just barely crunching the snow until he was drowned out by the howling wind whistling from the Sea of Ghosts.

There was a long pause as Brina waited. Then, sighing a breath of relief, she lifted the blanket up from the body on the bedroll. “He’s gone now.”

Eha sat up and pushed the heavy quilts off with a grunt. “Good. Let’s hope this works, Stone-Cat, because if it doesn’t--”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

~~~

Going through snow would take too long. The shore was rocky, but wouldn’t involve wading through snow drifts, and typically had few enemy patrols to worry about. Matus already knew, the only person who’d have spotted him out here would have been, well… himself.

He made his way right down from the camp and straight to the shoreline, where he followed the sea straight toward Dawnstar.

Now, the problem with having it all figured out, knowing where enemy scouts would and wouldn’t be around to see him, was that he wasn’t looking for other threats. And while Matus may have known the area surrounding Solitude to the smallest detail, he didn’t know the Pale -- or the most effective ambush points here in the Pale -- like a Dawnstar-born bandit.

~~~

Ondolemar showed himself into the tent, bristly as a boar in a trap. Even after eating some of the roasted venison the soldiers had hunted and cooked, it was hard to get comfortable. The moment anyone wised up to their ploy, their journey would come to a harsh and immediate end, and Zeno wouldn’t be the only one in need of rescue.

The canvas around them blocked out most of the wind, but it was still cold as the grave. Eha removed her armor and got back under the blankets shortly after supper, and was joined by Brina, who had no qualms whatsoever sharing beds or blankets, or generally getting into other people's spaces.

Whether it was because she knew Brina couldn’t handle the cold as well as her, or as a sort of apology for not trusting her earlier, Eha said nothing, and let Brina get as close and comfortable as she needed to be.

“You may as well get in here, Ondolemar,” Brina said from under a heavy layer of bedding. She’d gone and tucked herself, head and all, into the quilts. “All we can do is wait. You should try not to freeze to death in the meantime.”

“I will get my own tent, thank you.”

“Then what are you doing in here?” Eha asked, all her patience long-since spent.

“We need to be clear on our plan. We estimate, with the harsher terrain going from Windhelm to Haafingar, it will take roughly twelve days at their expedited pace for Zenotha to arrive at the Embassy. That was just more than three days ago.”

“Time isn’t the problem, Ondolemar. They’ve been going by foot, we have a huge lead on them no matter what route or road they’re taking. Why, we were beneath the Mage’s college this morning, and got all the way past the Tower before the dragon got us in the afternoon! This is the fastest I’ve _ever_ traveled! I swear, it’s like we had a daedra blowing in our sails -- oh shit, oh fuck, we might’ve actually had a daedra helping us --”

“Regardless, Miss Valus. We still also need to travel by foot down once we arrive at Solitude, and our speed advantage will be gone,” Ondolemar pointed out. “I want to make it clear. We cannot wait too long. If this plan doesn’t play out within the next two days, we need to escape on our own. And that means, we have to devise a plan.”

Eha gave a snort. “There’s no way the three of us left in here could sneak out. That’s why none of us were sent out for that part of the plan in the first place. You stick out like a sore thumb, Brina can’t walk three paces without tripping, and I’m as sneaky as a Dwarven centurion. That, and thanks to these rocks and cliffs and hills, there’s only one way to sneak out of here that isn’t a sure slip and fall to our death.”

“Two days,” Brina said. “We wait two days. And if that doesn’t work…”

“Then we’re actually fighting fifty legionnaires, the three of us?”

Brina winced deeper under the covers. “Just… have faith. Before two days are up, we’ll be out of here. I promise.”

Hard to take heart in that vow when she was burrowing deeper and deeper into their fortress of furs and quilts but, but a roll of his eyes, Ondolemar realized it was the most comfort he would get. WIth a huff, he showed himself back out of the tent.

~~~

It was a good thing Matus went the beach route. Made it easier on Thrynn. Thrynn even let Matus get a little way down the shoreline on his own; the less distance he had to carry the bastard, the better. He was patched up, sure, but he still got bit by a fucking _dragon_ , and that sort of wound was the kind you’re lucky to survive at all.

If it weren’t for having a master alchemist and restoration mage in their team, Thrynn wouldn’t be walking for days, maybe weeks. Let alone stalking an Imperial scout down the coastline, or drawing a bow back, or dragging him down the stone steps into the depths of a dungeon he’d hoped he’d never have to enter again, not since Delvin had rented out guild services to their old allies some three-or-so years ago.

He entered with a clamor. He was exhausted from making chase all night, and sore and hurt from having to stress his injured body by hunting down and carrying Matus down here, so _sorry_ if he wasn’t able to make a graceful entrance.

A whole family full of baffled, angry, dangerous eyes were on him as he stood at the top of the stairs to their common room. Demonstratively, Thrynn held up Matus’s body with one hand, and a knife and tangle of weeds -- nightshade from outside their base -- in the other.

“Sweet mother, sweet mother,” he wheezed sardonically, letting Matus’s body drop onto and down the stairs. “There. Did I do it right?”

And then he collapsed at the top of the stairs, too tired and in pain to keep going. But his part of the mission was done.

Help was on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rip in peace, Matus.
> 
> Not gonna lie, y'all, I'm actually super excited for this. I hope you've missed the family as much as I have, because I'm practically giddy for what happens next.
> 
> I know I'm writing this for a game that came out six years ago, and I've been slow, and it's not like I even write for a popular ship or anything, but I so appreciate that there are still some of you along for the ride. Comments, kudos, thoughts and feeling all mean the absolute world to me (and assure me that there's still somebody actually reading this). Thank you to everyone who's commented or kudos'ed already. Y'all are beautiful.


	13. Deadly Nightshade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help is on the way.
> 
> With knives.

Hours dragged on, uncertainty as thick and dreadful as the mists of the Evergloom.

Whether Thrynn successfully intercepted Mattus and managed to find help for the group now trapped among Imperial forces, or if he failed and died out there in the frigid cold that rolled off the Sea of Ghosts, they would have no way to know. All they could do, Brina realized with thinly-concealed horror, was play along with the Imperials’ misconception of them, and pray help was on the way.

Their odds were slim. Three against… how many? Brina tried to crane her neck over the tents to get a count, but her vision failed to the darkness and disorienting flurries of snow.

“Get back in here, before you freeze,” Ondolemar grumbled out the flap out the tent. “Or, worse,” he added, lowering his voice to a serpentine hiss, “make someone suspicious.”

“Nothing suspicious about needing fresh air,” Brina said, but she followed his advice and scooted back into the tent nonetheless, snapping the flap of the tent shut against the lazily-falling snow and rubbing her hands together.

“You look like you’re at watch, or waiting for them to attack us,” Eha said. “We’re supposed to trust them, remember? They think we’re on their side.”

Poor Eha. The Stormblade, champion of Ulfric Stormcloak, a trusted commander, a seasoned warrior, a daughter of a priest of Talos; she was a force of nature on the battlefield, but this was no battlefield. Fighting a dragon had her looking less rattled than making camp and breaking bread with Imperials. Hiding in the tent gave her reprieve, and she made it clear she would leave for nothing short of life-or-death.

“It’s not them I’m watching, necessarily,” Brina said, making herself comfortable beside Eha. “I mean, them, too, but I don’t want to miss if Thrynn comes back.”

Ondolemar made no attempt to hide the roll of his eyes. “It will take hours, perhaps an entire day, for him to get to Dawnstar and back in this weather.”

“It’ll be dawn soon. He might’ve made it. I don’t think we’re actually that far from Dawnstar, so--”

“If you care so much for his safety, you shouldn’t have sent him with a bite taken out of his side into a blizzard,” Ondolemar pointed out.

“He’s the only one whose disappearance would go unnoticed. We just pretend he’s sleeping in here, no one wonders,” Brina said. She started pulling her boots off. Better to get some sleep than none at all. “Not to mention, he’s the only one with any chance of tracking and stopping Matus. And, he knows the area and how to contact my friends in Dawnstar. It had to be him.”

“I wonder what it must be like to have expendable lovers to send on dangerous missions on your behalf,” Eha whispered, harsh and not at all quietly enough to go unheard in the small space.

Despite herself, Brina flinched. Any and all good will she’d earned from Eha had consistently crumbling since her brother was taken and this quest to rescue him began. Whether it was her too-apparent disdain for Ulfric, or her allies which included criminals and Thalmor, or the lies that she let slip along the way, Brina hated to see the admiration and friendship dissolve from Eha’s eyes with each day that passed.

“It is Ulfric Stormcloak’s betrothed who is off to save the rebellion’s hero, the Dragonborn of legend,” Ondolemar sneered. “Perhaps you can ask _him_ when you return?”

The chilly silence that followed lasted until Brina finally fell asleep on the empty bedroll meant for Thrynn.

~~~

“Apologies, Legate, but it would be tantamount to treason to divulge the details of my mission to anyone less than General Tullius,” she insisted.

As far as leaders went, Telendas had potential. It was little wonder that earnest and helpful sorts like Matus flourished under his command. He asked thorough questions, was gracious yet direct, and made every effort to see to Brina’s comfort while never once losing sight of the ultimate gravity of the situation.

The map set in the center of the legate’s tent was worn around the edges, bent and creased from years of being rolled and unraveled. The little pieces representing important locations, people, and moving armies were mismatched. Sometimes, a well-shaped rock stood in for something meaningful, but most of the pieces represented something she couldn’t make sense of. A shard of iron from a broken blade rested on an island in the Karth River; a shard of bone the shape of an arrow pointed to Fort Kastav in Winterhold.

“Your discretion is wise, Miss Valus,” Telendas said, “but I’m not asking about the mission you were sent to Windhelm for. I was hoping you had information on Stormcloak parties near us. We’ve been awaiting orders, but with no clear move from the rebels, we’ve been sitting on our hands. If you know something we don’t, perhaps we can take the fight to them, or be prepared to defend Dawnstar should they choose to attack.”

Brina let her fingers trail along the lines of the map. The places she’d been, the things she had seen, they were right beneath her fingertips.

She’d crawled over the Jerall pass, starving and cold, and was pointed to safety by an extraordinarily merciful highwayman; Helgen was still on this particular map, having been destroyed just over three years ago three years ago. She slept in an abandoned farmhouse just down the road from a crumbling watchtower; the watchtower was marked, and the spot where the farmhouse stood had a little speck of what was probably long-dried tea. She met a jester on the road in the Pale, where the line representing the Pale Passage curved to the east. She ran a con on the good people of Ivarstead, and began a legend of spirits in the Rift; her little shack in the woods was a blank spot, but within an inch of the marked Imperial camp.

Seeing it all out in front of her, the map she’d traversed, it made her chest tighten with pride.

She woke a tower of cultists and orcs and ended a daedric curse on Dawnstar. She walked the roads from Dawnstar to Windhelm to Whiterun with a mercenary and a jester, and finally felt love again for the first time in so horribly long. She fought hagravens with Companions in Falkreath Hold. She shattered her leg beyond its limit in Riverwood. She flew across the land atop a dragon, into the Velothi Mountains.

She watched the sunrise turn the world to gold before her eyes, hand-in-hand with her brother, on the Seven Thousand Steps. 

And that was just the beginning. After that, everything had changed. Because then, in that golden dawn, it became her adventure. Not a search for her brother, not a constant struggle to survive in a world determined to defeat her, not a painful reminder of some kind of predestined curse of loneliness and abandonment.

That was when Skyrim finally became hers.

With her brother, they delved into tombs in the valleys, hunted Dragon Priests on mountaintops, uncovered untouched Spriggan groves in lush forests, and made mischief with Sam Guevenne in more cities than Brina would like to admit. Together, they fell from Bard’s Leap -- she would never forget how he screamed in terror as she slipped off the edge, and dove after her without a second thought.

Her finger stopped over a little unmarked spot in the Pale. The cartographer either didn’t know of the Dwarven structure, or didn’t realize the importance of it. But Brina’s heart ached to think of it, the lurch of the elevator beneath their feet, Zeno’s excited trill of laughter as they descended into the dark. They spent two weeks down there. The expedition might’ve gone longer, if only they’d brought more supplies.

The adventure wasn’t for Zeno, not anymore. He saved the world, he got his legend -- but exploring the wilderness, making merry in town, reveling in the impossible beauty of Blackreach, _that_ was hers. With her quest for reuniting her family finally complete, for the first time since she left Kvatch all those years ago, it was her turn to know joy and wanderlust and the exhilaration of a map that _belonged_ to her.

Gone were the days of following someone else’s road.

This was her Skyrim. It sure as all Oblivion didn’t belong to the Empire, and certainly not the Aldmeri Dominion by extension.

And she was getting really sick of the Aldmeri Dominion trying to take what belonged to her.

“Well, it’s not the Imperial Legion’s business, but...” She tapped three spots across the map. A hillside south of Morthal that dragons enjoyed perching on; a bandit encampment to the northwest of Whiterun; a little forested area in the south part of Haafingar with a worrying overabundance of bears. “In my time spent with the Stormcloaks, I was told of these havens for Talos worship. I’m sure the Thalmor would be very thankful to hear of them.”

Telendas nodded, scratching at the patchy beard growing in on his sharp chin. “I’ll send word ahead immediately.”

“The sooner, the better, I expect.”

One way or another, Brina doubted there’s be much time for her misdirection to be entertained. Best case scenario, the Thalmor succeeded in doing some good around Skyrim, however inadvertently. Worst case scenario, the natural order of things would prevail and there’d be a few less Thalmor in the world.

Serves them right for taking her brother.

“In any case, do you mind if I go back to my tent? My bodyguard is still in bad condition, I want to make sure he’s comfortable and healing properly before we get word to continue on to Solitude.”

Telendas nodded, his face pinching with sympathy. No one had heard the groans of pain from their tent since early yesterday; they all suspected the worst, and Brina knew it, so she lowered her eyes and made a show of her concern. Wasn’t hard to fake, since truly, there was so much to worry over. The crease in her brow was fast becoming a permanent feature.

She scurried back, and as always, her companions were staying close and to themselves there. Only as she approached did she realize that the towering Altmeri silhouette of Ondolemar was straighter than usual, somehow more tense than she’d ever seen him.

He beckoned her into the tent hurriedly, as if she’d been going anywhere else.

“What’s going on?” she whispered.

“Movement, around the perimeter of the camp,” Ondolemar said, his voice low and strained. “I cannot tell if they’re your brother’s associates, or Stormcloak spies, or any other number of men who might be lurking for whatever reason, but I do not intend to be caught in the crossfire until we know whether they’re here to rescue or murder us.”

 

“Rescue,” Brina breathed. It came out like a rush of warm water from a tea pot, soothing and smooth and full of instant relief.

Eha frowned. “How can you be so sure?”

Because she knew her friends wouldn’t wait to come to her aid if ever she asked it. Because she believed in Thrynn to complete his task in getting their attention in the first place. Perhaps because, somewhere in the stone beneath these hills, she could just barely hear a kind maternal voice acknowledge a ritual complete.

Brina shrugged. “The timing makes sense.”

~~~

The darkness of the far north in winter ensured that nighttime was never long away. They didn’t keep Brina waiting long to prove her right.

The first few deaths were silent. By the time a soldier raised alarm, it was far too late; they were surrounded, they were infiltrated. They were infested.

In the years since the emperor’s unfortunate and sudden demise, the little family expanded. Brothers and sisters, hands bloody and hearts eager, found their way into the fold and gave their whole souls to the Void. And now, bid to end the lives of an entire regimen of Imperial Legionnaires, they slipped out from the shadows like insects from an overturned log, swift and horrible and scattering.

Brina and Ondolemar understood what was happening immediately. Brina knew her brother’s cult, and Ondolemar at least knew _of_ it. But Eha’s eyes widened as she realized from within the safety of their tent how horribly amiss this was. There was no battle, they were not being called on to join in the efforts of their rescue and escape. There were no cries of battle, just screams put to sudden stops. Swords drawn, but no clashes of steel. This was a culling, cruel and immediate, and that Imperials stood no chance.

“What is happening?” she choked, sliding across the exposed ground of the tent to reach for the flap. “These _friends_ of yours -- what have you brought here?!”

The flap of the tent flew open before she could reach it, and Eha yelped in surprise. Despite being forced low by the small structure, and caught in tight quarters with Brina and Ondolemar, she drew her sword and spat a curse from her lips.

“Put that away, it won’t be necessary,” a purring voice told her. “The fighting is nearly at an end. If you even want to call it that.”

“By the Eight and Talos,” Brina sighed, wriggling past Eha to place a familiar hand on the newcomer’s forearm, “Nazir, am I glad to see you!”

Nazir was a Redguard man who positively towered over Brina, with eyes that cut as deep as his Alik’r-forged sword. Deadly and ruthless, Brina had only barely taken notice of the Speaker’s tall and broad physique physique on first meeting him before her brother had intervened and put an immediate end to whatever flirtation she might’ve otherwise attempted. The right choice, since the more Brina got to know and understand Nazir and the general dynamic of their odd little family, the more she realized any romantic entanglements would almost certainly lead to someone, herself or Nazir, in a shallow and unmarked grave.

Speaking of men who were just her type of big and menacing -- “Where’s Thrynn? Did he come to you? Is he alright?!”

Nazir stepped back from the tent and held the flap open wide in invitation. Without question, Brina followed his lead, and tried not to gasp when she saw the horror the Dark Brotherhood wrought. Focus, focus, she tore her eyes from a soldier still in his death throes at the hand of a woman in black and red leather. She swallowed, hard. It never did well to lose composure around the Brotherhood. “He must’ve told you to come here, right?”

“He did,” Nazir said. “He didn’t make it easy. Poor sod made a dramatic entrance, with the slain corpse of an Imperial scout in his arms, but most the of the blood he was covered in was his own. We had to wait for him to come to to actually explain the situation and what he expected _us_ to do about it. He’s being seen to by Babette, still at the Sanctuary.”

“But you took the contract, and for that I’m thankful beyond words,” Brina said, pointedly ignoring the scene itself, for which she was far, far less thankful to bear witness to. Someone screamed on the other side of the camp, and she hoped Nazir didn’t notice her biting the inside of her cheek.

“How could we turn down a contract from you, dear sister?” Nazir purred. He never looked her in the eyes when he called her sister. The sentiment never ran much deeper than the sound on his lips. “However, there is still the matter of payment. Surely you don’t expect a job that pulls almost the entire Sanctuary away and entails the slaughter of dozens of men would be free, do you?”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself, Nazir. This was a short walk from your front door, and you’d have done it for free.” But she waved her hand to dismiss her own joke. It was too forced from a tight throat to impress him, anyway. “You’ll get paid when I get my brother back. Did Thrynn get to that part?”

At that, his cruel eyes did narrow with something new. “I wondered how he let you out of his sight long enough to get into this mess at all. But Thrynn made no mention of Zeno, at least not before we left to complete the contract.”

With a firm nod, and Brina turned to look into the tent, only to find her companions had crawled out already. Ondolemar adjusted the straps of Thrynn’s pack on his shoulders, while Eha took in the view with a curl of distaste on her lips.

“We, ah…” Brina cringed against Eha’s gaze as it turned on her. By the divines, she’d never seen the Stormblade look so angry, and certainly never so intently angry at _her_. “We should go to the Sanctuary. I can take over Thrynn’s care from Babette, get the family up to date on what’s happened to Brother, and we can resupply in Dawnstar. We’ll hire a new boat, and continue on…”

“Aye, and I’ll be finding a falcon to take a message back to Windhelm for me,” Eha growled. “I was along for a rescue mission, Spirit, not whatever this has turned into.”

Behind Brina, Nazir clicked his tongue. “Our job here is done. Let’s return to Dawnstar, and you can explain just what’s happened.”

Though the Sanctuary was close by, just down the icy slope and around a bend, nestled between the stones along the northern shore of Dawnstar. But the trek took longer than it should have, between the dark and slick terrain and the oppressive air of distrust that grew ever thickler as Eha finally pieced together and resolved the night’s events in her mind.

It was in the shadow of the moon, with a cold metal door peaking ominously between the rocks, that Eha left them. “I’d sooner die than step into a haven of monsters. Lay with whatever dogs suit you, Valus, but I’d sooner go to the inn than follow you in there. When you’re ready to continue, find me. Or don’t, and I will return to Windhelm and Ulfric.”

Gods, but Brina hoped that the edge in her voice was only from the cold, the volume from speaking over the waves crashing in from the Sea of Ghosts and not low-simmering rage. But she knew better.

“Very well, Eha Kalju. I’ll find you when we’re ready.”

The disappointment shook Brina in a way she hadn’t expected. The sight of someone turning their back, leaving her again, it made her blink her eyes to fight back a burn in her eyes. It made all the people still standing around her wraiths in her peripheral, as all she saw was the back of someone she’d respected.

Her brother. The Thieves Guild. Her companions. Watching her brother fall into Sovngarde and leave her to die alone in Skuldafn. Fear of abandonment takes root in the hearts and minds of those for whom abandonment has paved their path in life.

It only exacerbated the existing dread of knowing Thrynn was wounded, her brother taken, and her future written with Ulfric. All at once, the crushing hopelessness and loneliness and fear caught her with force of a violent riptide.

That intense sadness could easily be shaken away, however, for there were a few universal panacea that Brina knew of. Cures to all her ailments, purer and more reliable than any tincture or tonic. One was waiting for her, just beyond that door. By Talos, did she need it.

Nazir spoke the password against the black iron, lips gently brushing it as if talking sweetly to a lover, and the door swung open for him. It was then that Brina darted past him, nearly tumbled down the stairs, and cried out for arms to catch her.

And they did. At the first wide chamber of the Sanctuary, just a few feet from the massive sarcophagus he’d been seeing to moments before, Cicero caught her and held her against him tightly enough to crack her ribs.

“Little Sister, Little Listener,” he crooned. The sound of his voice, strident and piercing, broke her heart and healed new it all at once.

“Cicero, oh!” She had to squeeze her eyes shut to keep from crying. “You wouldn’t believe how awful everything is!”

“Oh, goody! Then you have no excuse not to stay this time!” She laughed painfully, and Cicero beamed at her. “I mean it, Sister, I have no pity for you! Cicero prayed for disaster since the day you last left!”

“I know you did, Cicero, I know. And it worked! Here I am!” She’d managed to keep the tears from flowing, but he dragged a gloved fingertip beneath her eyes anyway. He knew where they were supposed to be. “I missed you, fool of hearts.”

“Ah, yes, the emotional reunions, how could I have forgotten about these?” Nazir said, leading the rest of the party down the steps. “Just like every time you returned with Zeno, or got back from the market, or stepped into a different room for a few minutes. There will be time for it _after_ we knew what in Sithis’ name is going on.”

 

At that, Cicero released Brina, and made a show of pretending to be grim and somber despite the creases of his smile lines still drawn deeply around his eyes.

Many of the murderers from the massacre at the camp were filling in with Nazir, who started them toward a second flight of stairs leading into an open living space, but Ondolemar was quick to step ahead of him before he could get too far.

“Your entire order doesn’t need to know all the finer details. I’m sure anyone in your profession knows the value of fewer ears hearing fewer words. Let’s take this someplace more private first, and you can decide who does or doesn’t need to know more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I can't edit my own work for shit, whoopsidoodle.
> 
> Today is my birthday, so I wanted to get _something_ accomplished. Hence, the short chapter that's been clearly written sporadically over the course of several months.


End file.
